Irish Twins
by Zebra Wallpaper
Summary: A story about Ian and Lip's relationship. Sequel to Redheaded Stepchildren that picks up the story from Lip's perspective.
1. Prologue

Lip doesn't remember a time before Ian existed. He knows logically that there was time—eleven months—between Lip's entrance into the world and Ian's, but not a second of it remains in his conscience. Ian has always existed. Lip has always been his older brother.

If Lip tries to recall his earliest memory of his brother, the image that comes to mind is the back seat of that rusted out Cavalier where he, Ian, and Fiona slept, piled up like puppies. Sometimes Ian got to sleep in Monica's lap 'cause he was still the baby then, but most of the time he preferred to be with his brother and sister in the back. Most of the time, Frank and Monica weren't there anyway.

Fiona had showed the boys how you could make patterns in the velour upholstery, running your finger one way, pulling a line of fibers the opposite direction from the rest. Lip and Ian spent a lot of time drawing pictures for each other in the moonlight, circles and cars and monsters all carved out in the nap then immediately brushed away to start again.

Nights when Frank and Monica had said to wait for them and to be good, Fiona would sit up in the front, watchful like a hawk for their parents' return. In the back, Lip and Ian played with the upholstery, knees on the floorboards, breath always hot and moist against each other's faces since quarters were so tight. They made up stories about what they drew—Lip's stories were always better, Ian's were usually just copies of Lip's—until Fiona would announce it was time to go to the White Hen. Then it was Lip and Ian's job to hold each other's hands while Fiona led the way down the side of 43rd under the yellow streetlights.

And they didn't let go of each other's hands until it was time to take turns using the bathroom at the White Hen while Fiona pretended to shop. But their hands locked again once it was their turn to pretend while Fiona used the bathroom, and their hands stayed locked as she led the caravan back. Sometimes Lip and Ian still continued to hold hands even after they had returned to the car and built up their nest in the back seat for the night, holding onto each other as they ventured into dreams because what else was there to hold onto?

Then at some point they started letting go more often and for longer and longer intervals, until the idea of them holding hands at all came to seem absurd. In the same way, they moved from their puppy pile in the back seat of the Cavalier to the shared bed at Aunt Ginger's to separate bunks on opposite sides of the room to different rooms with the hall between them, then to different neighborhoods and entirely unconnected worlds.

Now when Lip runs into Ian at the house on the rare occasions when they are both there, his brother might as well be a stranger. The freckles that used to map out Ian's face are mostly gone, replaced by an implacable white that Lip doesn't know how to navigate.

Lip used to know the sound of his brother's breathing at night better than he knew the sound of anything else. He used to know what it was like to mistake Ian's heartbeat for Lip's own when they were wedged up tight together. He used to know exactly what to say to get Ian to laugh, used to take great satisfaction in making that happen, even though it was an easy enough trick.

These days, Lip fears that he has no idea where the brother he knew has gone to or, worse, that Ian was never that person to begin with. It's a disconcerting thought. No longer knowing Ian is like no longer knowing the world. And if he never knew Ian, that would mean that Lip never knew anything at all.

* * *

><p>Lip's been having the same sort of dream over and over again the last few months. In it, Ian seems to have run off again, and Lip is the only one concerned that they need to find him. Then someone (usually Fiona, but sometimes it's Debbie and one time it was fucking Kev) casually mentions that Ian died, and everyone's apparently forgotten to tell Lip.<p>

Lip doesn't put stock in dreams—that's some fortune-telling bullshit for the same kind of idiots who need to find meaning in Hallmark cards and fairy tales about Jesus—but he can't help but be unnerved every time he wakes up from one of these. There's always a few seconds during which he believes the loss to be real, and his grief and outrage are fully felt; tonight his face is wet when he awakes.

He lays there in the dark (why do these dreams always happen deep in the night?) and contemplates texting Ian something innocuous—even an annoyed reply would be enough confirmation to make Lip feel better. But he talks himself out of it. No use waking Ian up because Lip's suddenly morphed into a pussy moron who falls to pieces the second his perfectly understandable concern about his brother's health issues manifests itself in some woefully cliché recurring dreams.

A cigarette—what Lip wants second to some tangible assurance of Ian's continued existence—would wake him up, and one of Lip's reluctant responsibilities now is getting enough sleep so that he can function at as high a level as he needs to the next day. So he's taken to sipping from a bottle of whiskey after having one of these dreams, numbing himself back to calmness like a teething baby. He knows this probably isn't the wisest solution and is fully aware that he's started to get a little dependent on it in order to get back to sleep, but it's the best idea he's got right now. And it's the quickest way to shake off the terrible rattle these dreams leave in his spine.

So he takes swigs of whiskey until he is warm and drowsy again. He promises himself as he starts drifting off that he will call Ian first thing in the morning, 'cause that's something he should probably do anyway. In the morning, the dreams (and the rattle) seem far off and abstract, though, and so he never makes that call.

* * *

><p>It's been three months now since Lip stepped in to help Ian when he was a wreck up on the roof of their house. It's been three months since Lip used all of his persuasive abilities, flexed his bullying muscles, and finally wrung out every last drop of big brother clout he had in him to get Ian to the doctor. It's been three months since Lip sat in that exam room beside his broken brother and asked all the questions Ian didn't seem capable of asking, or of caring about asking anyway. It's been three months since that long drive home when Lip talked his throat raw just repeating all the things the doctor had said because Lip needed facts to hold onto just then and really needed Ian to stop looking like a barely reanimated corpse. It's been three months since Lip drank himself stupid that night and went to bed horrified that it was all in Ian's hands now.<p>

It's been three months, and in that time Ian's maybe said two-dozen words to Lip.

It's not like Lip expected Ian to thank him, or something. But maybe he had expected, or maybe he had just foolishly hoped, that it might be the start of a thaw in the cold war that Ian seems convinced they're waging. Instead, not a goddamned thing has changed.

The worst part is that Lip doesn't know how to fix it either. He doesn't know how to go back in time and figure out where things started to go wrong and then stop the pistons of that engine from rising and falling once more. All the textbooks in the world have not revealed the solution or offered up any kind of formula for repair.

So Lip keeps waiting for the answer to come to him, for the one of the million sparkling little eurekas that have turned up all his life to show up now. But it doesn't come.

Lip looks at Ian and hardly recognizes that kid who, eleven months of technicality aside, has always been his twin. His stupider, sweeter, and stronger twin—for better and for ill, Ian has always been a reminder of everything Lip is and is not. If Ian goes, a part of Lip goes too. And, increasingly, Lip is starting to realize that this part just might be a vital organ. Who the fuck is Lip if he doesn't have Ian beside him?

For Christ's sake, Lip was only ever 'Lip' because tiny Ian in the back seat, with half his baby teeth coming in slightly crooked on one side, couldn't say 'Phillip.' He could only say, with much difficulty, 'Ffff-lip.' So his brother re-Christened himself 'Lip' to make it easier for Ian…

Make it easier for Ian. That's all Lip has ever tried to do. Mostly. Sometimes Lip deliberately picked on him or pushed him around—they were brothers, they were gonna get on each other's nerves—but from the minute Lip first realized that Ian didn't understand things as quickly as Lip did, didn't seem to have nearly so easy a time, Lip saw himself as Ian's protector. When it was just the three of them that was Lip's job. And then when it was the four, five, six of them, Lip's job duties expanded. But Ian was the first and the closest, and that responsibility was nearest to Lip's heart. He never took it lightly.

Lip couldn't take it lightly because, for a long time, Ian didn't seem to have any sense of self-preservation. Ian was the kind of kid who would've held hands and walked off with anybody in that Park 'n Ride lot where they camped out in the Cavalier that better part of a year. It was a source of constant anxiety for Lip and Fiona, making sure that didn't ever happen. They couldn't seem to make Ian understand that people weren't to be trusted.

That changed a little, though, when Monica first left. She'd been in an irritable mood for days, then she slapped Ian for being fussy about something and it was the first time the baby of the family had ever been hit. Ian seemed more surprised than upset, though, as if he didn't understand what it was supposed to mean. Then Monica had gotten into a terrible fight with Frank. They'd screamed and hit each other, made up and took some pills, then screamed and fought some more. Fiona had kept the boys crouched down on the other side of the Cavalier, her hands over Lips ears, his hands over Ian's ears. Monica stormed off, and when she didn't return after several days and Frank just got drunker and drunker, it became a real possibility that she might not be coming back.

Ian was inconsolable the day Fiona explained this to him. Ian cried and wailed until he made himself sick, and then he kept it up some more. Frank had been gone most of the day, and when he stumbled home to find Ian still screeching, Frank shut him up. Hard. At last, Ian seemed to understand; people weren't to be trusted.

Lip had been relieved, almost, to have a little sense and pessimism knocked into his brother's head, even if Lip wished it didn't have to transpire quite so literally. But it was a lesson to Lip too: Shit was gonna happen to Ian, whether he deserved it or not. Lip was gonna have to be ready.

* * *

><p>Lip pushes his chair back from library cubicle desk and leans back, staring up at the brand-new LED lights recently installed as part of the school's Poly Goes Green initiative. They look ridiculous, and he's skeptical they'll really bring back the ROI the school has been crowing about. He's pretty sure they spent a gross amount of money on the lights just to appear cutting edge. It doesn't do much, in his opinion, to hip up the dated 1970s library, built when Brutalism was all the rage. But not much would, short of a wrecking ball.<p>

His textbook has been sitting in front of him for twenty minutes now and Lip has yet to actually open it. It's one of those afternoons where he just can't get his mind to focus on what he's supposed to.

He cranes his neck so he can spy the little sliver of window over by the stacks. From the looks of it, the gray clouds have let up a bit. With a grunt of finality, he throws his book and his notes into his bag and gives up. He might as well try to see the sun for at least a few minutes today.

Outside he walks for a bit and ends up at some ugly stone bench, a gift from the Class of 1964, according to the plaque. Lip takes a seat on the gift from the Class of 1964, lights up and finds himself, before he's even fully conscious that he's doing it, dialing Fiona's cell.

"Hey, College Boy!" Fiona greets him, and Lip is now smiling despite it having been a shitty, frustrating day.

"Can you talk?" he asks, hoping he doesn't sounds as desperate as he's feeling right now. The worse the day, the more lonely it gets up here.

"Sure," she says, "Just walkin' to the El."

"How's everything? How's the kids?"

"Okay, I guess. They sent a notice home that Carl's failing Pre-Algebra. Ian's havin' a conniption. I don't know what he thinks I can do about it."

"You heard from Ian?"

"Texts."

"Ah. What's he give a shit if Carl's flunking Algebra?"

"Pre-Algebra. I think it means Carl's off the football team if he can't bring his grades up."

"Even the bench-warmers gotta have a 2.0, huh?"

"I guess. Anyway, Ian's pissed. All that work he did to get him on there, you know?"

"All right. I'll talk to Carl this week, see what I can do."

"I think you got plenty of shit to worry about. Don't need to add tutorin' back on your list of things to do."

"Nah, it's a light term," Lip lies, "I got time. I'll work somethin' out with him. How's Debs?"

"Who knows? Fine, I think. Liam's good too. Writin' his name all over everything at the house I could do without, though."

Lip laughs. A big, green crayon 'LIAM' appeared on the back of Lip's statistics textbook last time he went home. Little graffiti artist in the making.

"And how are you?" Lip asks.

"Oh, you know. Just tryin' to keep my head above water. I'm like a shark—stop swimmin', we all die."

"Think you're mixin' your metaphors there."

"_Excuse me_, College," she teases. The sound of the announcement for an Inbound Train plays in the background, and her tone changes, "Hey, I gotta go."

"Okay."

Then the call is over and the loneliness has returned.

"Oh, I'm good, I'm fine," Lip says to no one, talking into his dead phone, "Got a reading quiz tomorrow, but it's no big deal. Actually pullin' an A in that class right now…"

He returns his phone to his pocket and sits back to smoke the last of his cigarette. But then his phone starts ringing. He takes it back out and expects to see Amanda's name, but it's Fiona again.

"Hullo?" he answers.

"Hey, I forgot to ask: How are you?"

Lip smiles. "Not much to write home about," he says. In the background on Fiona's end, he hears a CTA recording announcing a stop, but he can't make out which one it is.

"Classes and stuff—they're okay?"

"Yeah."

"Well, good. Just thought I should ask."

"Hey, Fiona?"

"Yeah?"

"You, uh, you ever think about the car?" Lip closes his eyes. He doesn't know why he just asked that.

"What car?"

"The Cavalier."

"Mom and Dad's Cavalier?"

"Yeah."

"Why the hell would I want to think about that?"

"Dunno. I keep thinkin' about it lately. Not sure why."

"Do you even remember it? You were real young."

"I was four when we moved to the house. Ian and I were both four."

"Magic Month, huh?" Fiona murmurs.

Her voice has lost its cheer, and Lip regrets bringing this up. Surely, Fiona remembers much more (and much worse) than he does.

"So, what?" Fiona asks irritably, "What about it?"

Lip stubs out his cigarette. "I dunno," he says again, "I just keep thinkin' about it."

There's a pause and then Fiona gathers up some of her cheer once more and says, "Well, you've come a long way from the Park 'n Ride to Chi Poly, all right? Just focus on that."

"You think Ian remembers it much?" Lip asks, somehow unable to stop himself.

"I don't know," Fiona replies softly, "I hope not. Be nice if one of ya was too little to remember."

Another stop announcement plays behind Fiona and she says, "I gotta go, Lip."

"Sure. Talk to ya later."

"Bye."

As Lip puts away his phone, his feet start leading him back toward the dorms. He's got two hours before he has to work the dinner shift, and he really needs to read that chapter, take some notes, and start working on outlining that essay that's due next week 'cause he's not gonna have much time before then…

But when he gets to the sidewalk cutoff that will take him no place but the dorms, Lip pauses. He glances up at the clouds once more, figures it's gonna be at least an hour before the sky starts sleeting. Fuck it. He digs his hands deeper into his jacket pockets and heads in the opposite direction. He's gonna get as far away from campus as he can. For a little while, anyway.

Lip walks for twenty minutes before he finally emerges from the leafy bubble of campus and apartment buildings that house nothing but Chi Poly students and Bubble Tea places and Pita shops that cater exclusively to the rich little shits. The neighborhood beyond Chi Poly is actually pretty working class. Nicer than the Yards, but a breath of fresh air compared to the area around the university. People look normal, not perfectly outfitted from North Face or J. Crew, and they're not all exclusively twenty years old. And there's not a goddamned recumbent bike in sight.

He ducks into a corner store (the hand-drawn 'We Accept LINK' sign in the window warms his heart) and buys a pop—Strawberry Crush, the kind of thing that would never be an option on the Poly campus. He drinks it while standing on the sidewalk, leaning against the side of the storefront, watching people go buy. If he squints, it could be like he's home.

The pop tastes awful, almost like he can pick out all the individual chemicals dancing on his tongue, swathed in corn syrup and red dye #40. Still, he drinks it and smiles as a little kid in a Batman costume walks by holding his mom's hand. First it makes Lip think of Casey Casden and all the grief that Debbie caused them, but then he can't help thinking of Ian, picturing him as he was when they were six and seven, a walking freckle with boundless energy and a smile that was missing several pieces

Ian loved Batman more than any other cartoon, but Lip always got to be Batman when they played because, he told Ian, "Batman is smart," and Ian couldn't argue with that rationale. Instead, Ian would have to be the Joker, but Ian hated being the Joker, hated being on the wrong side. He kept trying to make the Joker turn good and see the error of his ways, and this violation of the rules of Batman annoyed Lip to no end. "You're not doing it right," he'd tell Ian, "We're not gonna play if you're not gonna do it right." So Ian would reluctantly do his best to be bad. Ian sucked at being bad, though. So they'd give up on playing Batman and play guns. It was hard to fuck up playing guns since there was no dumb sense of morality to get in the way. Guns were guns and even stupid, sweet Ian could get behind that.

And now Lip's back to being depressed again. He tosses the remainder of the pop in a garbage can and starts trudging back toward campus.

Lip's never been one to be apologetic about being a bossy shit. Most of the time it was necessary—there wasn't exactly a surfeit of other folks around stepping up to take charge—but even when it wasn't, so what? If people didn't like Lip being bossy, they could've grown some balls and said as much. But he didn't always have to take that opportunity. It wouldn't have killed him to have let Ian be Batman once in a while. Fiona had certainly said as much to Lip at the time.

Lip walks past a guy in a denim jacket just then who reeks of BO and, of course, his mind turns to Frank. Fucking Frank. And then because he can't seem to stop thinking about it lately, Lip's remembering that last night in the Cavalier.

It was miserably cold that night, had been for days, and all four of them were scrunched together in the back seat, trying to get warm. It had been a week, maybe, since the battery finally died, and there hadn't been any heat since then. And Ian was sick because he always seemed to be sick during that period, like he'd caught one cold and hadn't been able to shake it. Everything seemed to be coming together into one nightmare knot Lip didn't know how they could untangle. He held Ian's hand and he pushed in closer to Fiona.

Lip had been surprised that Frank stayed with them that night. At first, Lip read this charitably, but then he figured out that this probably just meant Frank had finally run out of money and favors. So then it made it worse that Frank was there with them.

First, Frank encouraged them to sing songs to keep warm, but they didn't know any of the songs he tried to sing ("You guys don't know 'Hotel California'? What the hell's wrong with you?"). Then Frank insisted they pile up all their clothes and belongings into a wall around them to keep out the chill. But the chill was inside too and three underfed little kids weren't that great at generating excess body heat. And it was getting hard to breathe surrounding by all that stuff. Plus, their breath made things moist, and it seemed to make Ian's coughing that much worse.

"All right," Frank finally said, "Forget this noise. Get your stuff and come on."

They scrambled to shove their belongings into the endless grocery bags Monica had hoarded before she split, and then they hurried to follow Frank as he led the way out of the Park 'n Ride.

"Shouldn't we lock the car?" Fiona asked.

"Forget it," Frank waved off the only home his kids had known for seven months, "We're not coming back."

Lip had felt both frightened and triumphant. Frank finally had a plan that included them.

They walked for ages. Lip's hands and toes went numb from the cold, and Frank even consented to carrying Ian for a while because his exhausted stumbling was holding them up. Lip felt a jealous when Frank scooped Ian off his feet, but Fiona had given Lip a cautious smile, and Lip decided not to complain. He also decided not to voice his suspicion that Frank's plan was actually just to walk all night to keep warm until the stores opened in the morning and they could loiter someplace inside.

This wasn't the case, though. Frank did eventually lead them to a street of dark little houses and up the front steps of a blue one on the corner.

"Whose house is this?" Lip asked, not really wanting to but feeling like somebody had to ask.

"Your Aunt's."

"Who's our aunt?"

"Never mind. Just look pathetic. Try to look like Dickensian street urchins."

"I don't know what that is," Fiona said, panicked.

"Just try to look tired and cold and hungry, all right?" Frank snapped, banging on the front door, "Shouldn't be too hard."

Frank banged again and then again a little bit later, refusing to budge until eventually a light came on inside and they heard someone turning the locks.

"Ginger!" Frank cheered as an old woman opened the door just wide enough to see out.

"The hell are you doing here?" she asked.

"Thought it was time you met the kids."

"Go away, Frank."

Ginger started to slam the door, but Frank stopped it with his foot.

"Listen," Frank said, his entire tone changing to something much more pathetic, "There was some mix-up with Com-Ed. I paid the bill, but they're saying they never received it. Shut the electric off over at our place, and now we've got no heat. And of course, I can't get a hold of anybody over there. Twenty-four hour hotline, my ass."

Ginger made a face and said, "You got electric heat? That's no good. You gotta have gas heat. Electric's too expensive."

"That's what I always say," Frank said in a chummy, conspiratorial tone, "But it's the landlord's choice. What're you gonna do?"

"Hmm," Ginger agreed reluctantly, seeming then to remember her dislike for Frank, "Well, you can't stay here. I told you—never again."

"Come on, Ginger, just for tonight? I'll go over to Com-Ed first thing in the morning and get everything straightened out."

"No. No, Frank. Now, go away."

"Please? Fiona's been crying her eyes out all night, she's so cold. And, and Ian—" Frank paused, then scooped Ian back up and held him up to Ginger the way a priest holds a crucifix to a vampire, "He's sick as a dog. I don't want him getting worse. Kid's like fuckin' Tiny Tim."

Ginger peered at Ian who, miserable and snot-faced as he was, still had those Bambi eyes that always got strangers to offer him treats and ask him if he needed help finding his mother. Nobody could ever resist those eyes. Lip could see them doing their best on Ginger, her reserve wavering.

Frank could see it too. "Isn't he the spitting image of Clayton?" he asked, pushing harder, "You were always so good to Clay and I when we were kids. Had a real soft spot for him, didn't ya?"

Ginger smiled then. "How is Clayton? He was always such a nice boy."

"Don't know," Frank said quickly, "Haven't seen him in years. He's too good for his failure of a brother now."

"Yeah, well, that's true," Ginger murmured, and Lip got the impression that Ginger wasn't exactly all there.

"Where's Monica?" she asked then, and Lip felt like she's slapped them.

But Frank saw it as an opportunity to lay it on thick. "Oh, she left us," he says, his voice full of woe, "Couldn't handle the pressure of three kids. Wanted to live a free-wheelin' life with no responsibilities. Left me with the three of them, took all our money. Here I am, a single father, tryin' to raise three growing kids on minimum wage. Got a bad back, but can't let that stop me. I got them to worry about, you know? Just trying to look after them, raise them right…"

Ginger was still looking at Ian, who was leaning back against Fiona now, eyes closed as Fiona stroked his hair away from his hot forehead. Worried that their secret weapon was losing its effectiveness, Lip willed Ian to open his eyes. And, as if psychically receiving Lip's nudge, Ian did. He turned his big, green eyes up at Ginger, looking for all the world like a Precious Moments figurine.

"All right," Ginger finally gave in, "But just for tonight. You've got to be out in the morning. Patrick's coming by to fix the back steps and he won't like it if he sees you here."

Somehow all kids knew not to cheer, but Lip and Fiona were certainly celebrating their good fortune inwardly, exchanging secret smiles as Ginger led them into the house. There were two twin beds available and the couch. Frank claimed one of the beds right away. Fiona insisted the boys take the other bed and she took the couch.

It felt odd leaving Fiona all alone on the strange couch, but she insisted, putting on a brave face. Lip held Ian's hand as Ginger led them upstairs to a dark room crammed full of junk, including a narrow bed with sheets on it that smelled like mildew. Lip's uneasiness lessened a good deal as they settled onto the bed, the first real bed they had slept on in months.

Ian couldn't remember anything before the Cavalier, but Lip did remember, so very faintly, a bed at Uncle Nick's that the three of them had shared and a sleeping bag they shared at Monica's friend Amy's house, which wasn't so much her house as a house in which Amy was squatting and allowed Monica's family to briefly camp out in. Years later, Lip would be silently devastated when he and Debbie went searching for Ian and found that their brother had been living in a squat just like Lip remembered. Seeing Ian's kit bag in that place, Lip's name stenciled on it, a shudder had traveled down his body.

But that first night at Aunt Ginger's house was still magic in Lip's memory. For a few years, Lip had looked back at that event, at Frank getting them out of the freezing car and into a real bed in a real house, as the one time Frank came through for them. It was the one bit of proof that Frank wasn't entirely a bad father, that he actually gave a shit about their wellbeing. Then, of course, Lip got a little older, got burned by Frank a few dozen more times, and he started to realize that this wasn't the one time when Frank put the kids first and came through for them. This was just one of many times that Frank wanted something for himself and saw that he could use the kids to get it.

Lip didn't know that then, though. All Lip knew was that the lumpy, mildew-stinking bed was heavenly.

Ian was too sick to appreciate it. He took Lip's hand and spooned against him automatically, just like they always had in the car. Lip knew that getting close to a sick person and breathing was how you transferred cold germs, and he didn't want to get sick. But he also didn't want Ian to be scared; that was more important. So Lip cuddled up to Ian tight and breathed in the germs as deep as he could just to spite them.

The next day Frank finagled another night out of Ginger and it turned out to be a wild night—the adults partying downstairs while Fiona and Lip played Go Fish and luxuriated on the bed upstairs, taking turns giving Ian sips of Fruit Punch when he was awake. The next morning, Aunt Ginger "went to Wisconsin," and they never saw her again. Kindly enough, she left Frank in charge of her house while she was away. "The Gallaghers have finally had a stroke of luck," Frank enthused as he scrubbed dirt off his hands in the kitchen sink.

"Jesus Fucking Christ," Lip mutters now as he shakes the memory off and approaches the library once more. He's got about forty minutes until he needs to report for work and he could probably manage to read the chapter and take some good notes in that time if he really focused.

In his pocket, though, he finds his hand clasping his phone. He wants to call Ian, just to hear his voice, check how he is, maybe even ask if he remembers anything at all about the rusted out Cavalier, the pictures in the upholstery.

But then annoyance surges up inside of Lip. He drops the phone back in his pocket and charges full force into the library.

Fuck Ian. And fuck Frank. And fuck Monica. Fuck them all.

Lip's gotta study.


	2. Socks on the Doorknobs

Lip wakes up to his cell ringing, though it takes him a moment to understand what the sound is. Everyone always pretty much just texts him unless they're knowingly trying to wake him. So once Lip understands what that stupid ringtone means, his immediate reaction is dread.

"What is it?" he answers, not even taking the time to check the ID.

"Lip?"

"Ian? What the fuck time is it?"

"Little after six thirty. You at the house?"

Lip sits up on his elbow and realizes that he's in his old bed, not the dorm. Slowly, the memory of last night, of dinner with Debbie and Carl, arguing with Carl about his Pre-Algebra homework, trying and failing to fix the washing machine, comes back to him.

"Yeah," he says, rubbing his eye with his free hand, "What's up?"

"You got that car?"

"Yeah."

"Think you can give me a ride to work?"

"What the fuck time is it?" Lip asks again, forgetting he has already asked this.

"Hey, never mind," Ian says, "I'll figure it out. Sorry I woke you—"

"No, no, man," Lip says, sitting up fully now, a little warning bell going off in his sluggish mind—when was the last time Ian even asked him for a favor? "I can give you a lift. You at…home?"

Lip doesn't know if he'll ever be able to get used to thinking of the Milkovich house as Ian's _home_. Or if Lip will ever be able to mention it without unconsciously taking on a slightly judgmental tone. Ian doesn't bristle at it this time, though, like he usually does. Lip gets the impression that Ian's distressed about something, despite his cool tone, and the warning bell starts ringing a little louder.

"Yeah…" Ian says, his voice trailing off as he covers the phone or lowers it from his ear and says something to someone else that Lip can't make out. Then Ian's voice comes back clearly, "You don't mind?"

"Course not," Lip replies firmly, "I'll be there in five."

"Thanks."

"Yeah."

Lip ends the call and pulls on his clothes from yesterday. He's missing his morning cigarette acutely as he throws his books and papers back into his bag, but he doesn't have time for it now. Without quite realizing it, he's glided into crisis mode (yellow alert level, or something, not quite orange or red) and moves with speed and purpose. He slips out of the house without waking anyone and gets into Amanda's car, noting that it's gotten late enough in the year that it's still almost dark out, which doesn't make him feel any less apprehensive. In his experience, nothing good ever happens during this blue-gray hour.

This apprehension turns into full-blown anxiety (orange alert) as he turns off of Wallace Street and sees what looks like smoke in the general area of the Milkovich house. Turning onto the next street over from Zemansky, it is definitely smoke (orangey-red alert). Then his stomach drops out as he turns onto their block and sees a fire truck and two cop cars in front of their house. Red fuckin' alert.

"Shit," he mutters as he pulls over across the street and a little ways down from the house. He immediately picks up on the fact that the cops and firefighters all seem to be milling around, not exactly rushing. This is some comfort. The black plume of smoke rising from behind the house and the vaguely toxic stench are not quite as reassuring, though.

Mickey's talking to one of the cops, Mickey's hands moving in all sorts of gesticulations as he speaks. There's also Russian whores and random neighbors everywhere, in various states of undress, and Mickey's kid, whatever the fuck his name is, is wailing while Mickey's wife (_ex-wife_, Lip reminds himself,_ ex-wife_) tries unsuccessfully to soothe the baby.

Lip catches sight of Ian then, standing calmly beside the fire truck in nothing but his boxer shorts.

"Oh, hey," Ian says as Lip walks into his line of vision.

"_Hey_? What the fuck is all this?"

Ian shrugs. "Somebody set a car on fire in the alley."

"Shit."

"Yeah." Ian watches the firemen dragging the long hose to the truck, its white, flat form like a giant, lazy snake making its way back from behind the house. Then Ian give Lip the kind of bright, false expression he used to reserve for kind strangers and says, "Thanks for giving me a ride. I'd be really late if I had to take the train at this point."

Lip manages to stop himself from commenting that Ian's nuts for being concerned about his dumb job at a time like this. Instead he keeps his mouth shut and just stands there idiotically while Ian steps over to Mickey.

"Lip's giving me a ride to work, all right?" Ian says as Mickey turns away from the cop.

Mickey notices Lip for the first time and scowls. Then he asks Ian, "You all right?"

"Yeah," Ian replies, "You all right?"

"Right as fuckin' rain," Mickey says, then he adds, "Put some clothes on before you go, huh? Stop givin' the world a free show."

Once more Lip has to use self-control to keep his remarks to himself and his facial expression blank. Every time he gets some little reminder of the intimacy of his brother's relationship with Mickey Milkovich, it makes his hackles raise. Lip considers himself pretty fine with the whole gay thing at this point, but he doesn't think he'll ever be fine with the fact that Ian chose Mickey to shack up with. Lip has never even liked Mickey, let alone trusted him. It makes Lip deeply uncomfortable that Ian trusts Mickey and trusts him with everything: his heart, his health, his finances, his whole fucking life. Lip doesn't see any way that this doesn't eventually go very, very wrong.

Ian smiles and, like he's living in fucking Lakeview, lets his hand trail across the back of Mickey's shoulders as Mickey returns his attention to the cop and Ian heads toward the house.

Mickey's wife (_ex-wife_) stops Ian en route, however, thrusting the screaming baby into his arms.

"You fix baby," she commands, "I get clothes."

Lip finally lights his first cigarette of the morning as he settles his weight onto one side and watches Ian do his baby whisperer act. It works, of course. It's always worked, even when Ian was thirteen and Liam was colicky as shit. After Ian does a bit of jiggling and cooing, the baby gives up his protest and settles quietly against Ian's chest. It really is a shame that some chick isn't gonna get to have Ian as her baby daddy; he's practically been in training for it most of his life.

Mickey's wife returns with Ian's clothes and boots and, Lip notes with amusement, his winter coat, even though the weather's still too warm for it.

Ian trades her the baby for it all, then follows Lip over to the car. Lip gets in and starts the heater while Ian stands outside and steps into his olive drab uniform pants before he gets in. He pulls on his undershirt once he's in the passenger seat but leaves his coat and his uniform shirt in his lap.

Lip lets the heater continue to warm up for a moment and savors his cigarette. He's just about to put the car into drive when Ian asks, "Can I bum one of those off you?"

"Thought you quit," Lip says, remembering how self-righteous Ian had been about it.

"Come on," Ian says tiredly.

Lip slips another Marlboro Red out of the pack and hands it to Ian, then holds his own cigarette between his lips as he takes out his lighter.

As Ian leans forward so Lip can light his cigarette, Lip notices that Ian's hands are shaking. Somehow, this makes Lip feel more magnanimous.

"You all right?" Lip asks as he steers them away from the curb.

Ian nods. "It was right outside the room where Yevgeny was sleeping," he explains, "Could've blown out the windows with the heat. Or, fuck, what if the fuel tank exploded before the fire department got here?"

"Shit," Lip agrees. He glances over at Ian, but Ian's gazing out the window. Lip returns his eyes to the road, navigating them swiftly toward the expressway. This time of morning it should be faster than taking the regular streets.

"I told you this would happen," Lip says as they cruise up the entrance ramp and merge, blissfully clear of traffic.

"Huh?"

"Everybody knows about you two now. You think this is fuckin' Sesame Street? All these mouth-breathers around here are just gonna be totally cool with Ernie fuckin' Bert up the ass in the house down the street?"

Ian takes another drag and eyes Lip like he's amused by him.

Lip shrugs and repeats, "Told you."

"This wasn't a gay thing," Ian says.

Lip raises his eyebrows and gives Ian a look, but deigns not to say anything.

"It wasn't," Ian continues, his tone implying that Lip is the stupid one now, "It was a gang retaliation. Had nothing to do with us."

"Oh, yeah? How do you figure that?"

Ian rolls his eyes, and he says, "Well, One: nobody in our house is in a gang. Two: it was a goddamned 2014 Lexus SUV with tinted windows and pimped out rims. Three: they didn't write 'Die Fags Die' on the windshield. Pretty sure it wasn't meant for us."

"Then why the fuck was it behind your house?"

"We got the vacant lot beside us, the el tracks, and no garage. Cops said it's the perfect spot to dump a car and set it on fire."

"Terrific," Lip mutters, not entirely convinced, though he's slightly relieved by the prospect. He hopes to hell Ian's not shitting him about any of it. Still, what's to stop something like this happening again in far less 'random' circumstances? The thought's been gnawing at Lip for months, and this whole fiasco has just made it that much more real a possibility.

Ian fixes his eyes out his window and they smoke and drive in silence. It's a quick ride up to the exit for Chi Poly. Ian stubs out his cigarette in an empty coffee cup and starts putting on his boots as they get off the expressway and begin the slow crawl through local traffic toward campus.

"Sorry I woke you up," Ian apologizes again.

"S'okay. Got an early class anyway," Lip lies.

"I woulda just been late," Ian explains, "But I got a meeting with the board that oversees Facilities and Custodial."

"You in trouble?"

"Don't think so."

"Up for promotion? Senior Mop Boy? Lead Vomit Sawdust Technician?"

Ian ignores him and slips into his uniform shirt, folding his arms every which way to maneuver in the tight space.

"Too early in the morning for jokes, huh?" Lip asks.

"Maybe," Ian replies.

Lip glances over at him and notices that his uniform shirt now includes an embroidered 'Ian' on the breast pocket.

Ian sees him looking and explains, "Svetlana did that. Apparently she knows embroidery."

"You got a pretty twisted domestic situation, you know that? Does she pack you lunch too? You all sleep together in one big bed?"

Ian says nothing and tightens his bootlaces like he's preparing to storm the beaches of Normandy, not empty garbage bins and distribute urinal cakes for the next eight hours.

They reach the campus gates and Ian taps the armrest. "This is good," he says.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Lip pulls up to the curb, and Ian gets out. Ian gives him a quick wave through the window, then he strides up the lawn in the general direction of the facilities building.

Lip watches his brother go until he passes behind a cropping of evergreens and is no longer visible. Then Lip lights another cigarette and begins the tedious process of trying to find a parking spot somewhere remotely close to the dorms.

As he heads back into traffic and starts keeping watch for the elusive non-driveway/non-fire hydrant/non-permit spot, he puts on the stereo. Amanda's music comes blaring out. She doesn't listen to the kind of music Lip had expected—none of that Basic Bitch crap. Instead she's really into New Wave and Post-Punk and weird shit from the 80s. Usually, it irritates him—all its arty wailing and droning and synthesizers—but right now he doesn't care; he just doesn't want to think.

He's onto the third New Order song when he finally finds a spot to wedge himself into. Inside the dorm, he checks his mail (two more notes from fraternities trying to lure him to join to raise their collective GPA), and heads up to his room. When he unlocks the door, however, he's surprised to find Amanda standing on his bed updating his wall schedule.

"Hey," he says. He doesn't bother asking what she's doing or how she got in. It doesn't matter. She does what she wants, and he's given up on having any kind of control over that. Or at least he's trying to.

"What are you doing back so early?" she asks, turning from the schedule with three different colored Sharpies in her hand. She's got her stupid glasses on. They're unattractive, but Lip has come to find them so fucking hot because all he ever wants to do when he sees them is tear them off her. Their removal is like Pavlov's bell, signaling that something really good is about to be delivered.

"Somebody set a car on fire outside my brother's house," Lip hears himself saying. All he can see, though, are those glasses and the outline of her tits underneath her sweater. She's not wearing a bra.

"Wouldn't burning a cross on his lawn have been easier?" she asks, "And more symbolically effective?"

Lip shakes his head, salivating in anticipation of that bell ringing. "He says it wasn't a gay thing," he whispers wetly, "Says it was a gang thing."

Amanda snorts. "Your brother's in a gang?"

"No," Lip says, his voice almost inaudible, "He just lives in a shitty neighborhood."

Amanda caps each one of the markers slowly and purposefully before tossing them onto the floor. Then she removes her glasses, sets them on the desk and tilts her head, indicating the wall schedule. "So this is bonus time," she says, "Are we gonna fuck or you wanna talk about your brother some more?"

"Fuck," he sighs and steps toward her.

She pulls her sweater over her head, causing her hair to fly out in a static halo, and before the cashmere has even touched the floor, Lip is biting at her nipples. Amanda yanks his smelly t-shirt off of him and starts on his fly.

Lip forgets about his family and all their endless problems and all the burning cars and broken washing machines and past due electric bills down on the Southside. He forgets about everything but Amanda and how good he feels inside her. Afterwards, he passes out, content and exhausted, until Amanda wakes him again for his first class with a slap to side of his head and a cheerful, "Onward, Christian solider!"

Lip throws his legs over the side of the bed and notices groggily that Kuz is back.

"Last day of the week, man," Kuz greets him.

Lip watches Amanda loading Kuz's books into his backpack for him. Lip will never understand how she has time to do all these things for both of them and still keeps up her 4.0, her sorority activities, her excavations into all the seedier sides of life that will drive her parents batty.

"Your sister texted," Amanda remarks.

Lip picks his phone up off the floor and reads the message from Fiona:

_Electricity's off. Any ideas?_

He tells himself he's not going to respond. And he doesn't. He changes his clothes, loads up his bag, and heads out to class.

In the elevator, however, he relents and texts back:

_I'll figure it out. Don't worry._

Just once he'd like to receive that text instead of sending it.

* * *

><p>Lip is sitting in the dorm room with Kuz after their last class around five when there's a tentative knock at the door. It can't be Amanda—she never knocks tentatively—so Lip lets Kuz get it since Amanda is the only person who ever comes to see Lip.<p>

"Uh, is Lip here?"

Lip looks up to see Ian in the doorway.

"Hey," Lip greets him. To Kuz he says, "This is my brother."

"Oh, hey, man," Kuz says, taking Ian's hand, "Nice to meet you."

Ian gives him a slight smile, then takes just one step into the room.

"You got a couple bucks I can borrow for the train?" Ian says to Lip, "I left my wallet and my phone at the house this morning."

"Hmm," Lip muses, taking out his wallet. He comes up empty. "Carl cleaned me out yesterday," he apologizes, "And I don't get paid again 'til Monday. You got a couple bucks, Kuz?"

Kuz shakes his head. "I don't carry cash."

Ian holds up a hand in apology. "It's okay," he says, stepping back toward the hall, "Don't worry about it."

"No," Lip says, rising to his feet, "How the hell you gonna get home?"

"I'll figure something out. Just walk if I have to."

Lip puts his arm behind Ian and guides him back into the room. Ian allows this, though he looks embarrassed.

"Listen," Lip says, "Amanda's coming over in a bit. I'll ask her for some cash or, better yet, see if I can take her car and drive you home."

"Man, you'll miss the party," Kuz says.

"You got a party to go to?" Ian steps back toward the door again.

Jesus, when did Ian get so damn timid about intruding on Lip's life? Lip wants to throttle Ian for making it seem like some great big deal to borrow a couple bucks or get a ride. It never used to be like this.

"It's not important," Lip says firmly, practically shoving Ian toward his bed, "Just hang out a bit and when Amanda comes, we'll get you home."

Ian sits on the bed with his elbows on his knees and knots his hands together, clearly trying to feign ease. He looks completely out of place in his uniform, though, and he's still carrying that useless winter coat over his arm. Somehow he just seems too big to be a third occupant in the tiny room. Ian the elephant.

Lip tries to return his attention to the notes he was going over before Ian arrived, but everything just feels off now. Even Kuz seems to sense this; he's doing a very bad job of pretending to be interested in his email and not at all distracted by Ian's awkward presence.

No one says anything for a bit until Ian puts on a conversational tone and asks, "Do you guys do that thing with the socks on the doorknobs?"

Kuz and Lip look at each other puzzled. Then Kuz laughs, getting it. "Oh, like when we've got a chick in here?"

"Yeah," Ian says, his ears going red. Lip wonders how it is possible that Ian is eighteen. He seems at once twelve and forty.

"Nah, man," Kuz laughs again, "I don't think anybody really does that. Nobody 'round here anyway."

"What do you do, then?" Ian asks.

"Try not to look," Lip deadpans.

"Yeah," Kuz agrees, "And put on your headphones."

The awkwardness momentarily covered up, Kuz uses the opportunity to escape.

"I gotta take a piss," he says and shuffles off to the bathroom.

Lip continues trying to focus on his notes and Ian continues trying to pretend that he's not utterly ill at ease invading his brother's life. He sets his coat aside on the bed and sits back a little, stretching his legs out into the narrow space between the beds. He drums his fingers on his thigh and takes in the details of the space. This is Lip's second year in the dorms at Poly and the first time Ian's ever been inside his room.

"Can I use your phone?" Ian asks eventually, "Should call Mickey and let him know I'm gonna be late."

"He keeps pretty tight tabs on you, huh?" Lip asks as he tosses Ian the phone.

Ian gives him a look. He toys with the phone for a few seconds, then hands it back. "I'll get home when I get home," he says.

Lip smirks. It has always been so easy to get Ian's goat.

Then, as if Ian knows exactly how to get retaliation, his eyes wander over to the bedside table where they land on Lip's Macbook Pro. It was a birthday present from Amanda and Lip's been too embarrassed to bring it home and let the family see.

"Nice computer," Ian says. He runs his hand over the smooth aluminum, pops it open and admires the backlit keyboard.

"It gets the job done," Lip says, hoping to downplay it.

"School give that to you?"

Lip hesitates before he responds because he can't quite tell if Ian's being a dick because it's obviously an extravagant gift from Amanda just like Lip used to give Ian a hard time about accepting from Kash, or if Ian is genuinely naïve enough about college that he thinks it involves the school just giving you a twenty-five hundred dollar laptop. Or maybe Ian thinks that's what college is _for Lip_. Ian's always seemed to envision Lip's life as just a series of gifts continuously handed to him.

"Birthday present from Amanda, actually," Lip admits, bracing himself.

But Ian doesn't appear interested in giving him a hard time. "Cool," he says, closing the laptop and setting it carefully back on the table, "What is that, like, six, seven hundred bucks?"

"Something like that."

"Sweet arrangement you got going on."

Lip smiles and says again, "It gets the job done."

Ian slouches down lower and gives no indication that he's heard Lip's joke.

"You used to think I was funny," Lip comments, going over to the window and cracking it so he can have a smoke.

That, at last, gets a smile and a little sniff of humor out of Ian.

"I'm serious," Lip says as sits on top of the desk and lights up, "Did I just stop being funny or did you just lose your sense of humor?"

"Sorry," Ian says as he puts his head back and heaves a full-body sigh, "It's been a long day."

"Yeah, I bet." Lip holds his engineering notes in his lap and pages through them as he smokes. Living in the dorms, he's gotten pretty skilled at tuning things out and learning to snatch moments of concentration when he can. He loses himself, going back over the calculations his professor had mapped out on the board this afternoon, imagining their real life equivalents. He forgets that Ian is even here and, for a while, it's like they are back in their old room, sharing the space companionably, but each off in his own thoughts.

Then they both startle back to reality as someone pounds on the door.

"That would be Amanda," Lip explains and hops up to let her in.

She bustles in carrying several jumbo bags of Doritos and chucks them unceremoniously onto Kuz's bed. Then she catches sight of Ian and her face lights up.

"Hey, hot brother," she says.

"Uh, hey," Ian replies.

"You coming to the party too? That's great."

"No," Lip answers for him, "Actually, I need to get him home. Can I take your car?"

"Oh, come on," Amanda sneers, "You're totally just doing this so you can skip out on another party. I worked it into your schedule already. You have no excuse."

Lip frowns and glances at the schedule taped up on the wall. Amanda has indeed blocked out the rest of Friday night for 'Socializing/Being Normal' as well as two hours tomorrow morning for 'Hangover Recovery.' Damn.

"Just running him down home. I'm not even going in," Lip says, "Half the people won't even be here yet by the time I get back."

Amanda groans and says, "It's never just a quick trip home. There's gonna be some dumb family crisis, or, you know, like _five_, and you'll have to rush in and save everybody, and I won't see you 'til Sunday night. Not to mention it's going to completely throw off your schedule _again_ if you're down there this weekend. And every paper you write when you're home is total crap. And you were just there last night. Come _on_."

Lip just sucks the last bit of his cigarette as nonchalantly as possible and doesn't say anything because she's absolutely right, as she always is, but he's not going to give her the satisfaction.

"Are you gonna help me carry in the rest of this stuff?" Amanda demands to know, "Or do I have to do _that_ by myself too?"

Lip stubs out his cigarette and reaches for his shoes as Amanda heads back out.

While Lip ties his laces, he glances over at Ian. He's leaning back to read the wall schedule, no discernable expression on his face.

Then Ian says, "She keeps pretty tight tabs on you, huh?"

"Fuck off," Lip mutters.

Ian grins. Apparently, he still finds his own jokes funny.

Down at the car, Lip helps Amanda unload bags of party food while she coordinates with what seems like forty-eight sorority sisters on her phone. He's still annoyed with her for getting him so exactly, but he also feels a little bit bad. This party is one she's been directly involved in planning and he assured her at least twice this week that he was coming. But she's right; if he does go home, he probably won't be back until Monday. The Gallagher house is a fucking vortex. As a boyfriend, Lip's been sucking royally at being around for a lot of the social stuff.

When Lip returns to the room, hauling several liters of Diet Coke and two economy-sized jugs of Captain Morgan's, Ian's reclined fully on the bed, his hands laced over his chest.

"Don't get too comfy," Lip says as he sets the bottles on Kuz's desk.

"Listen," Ian says, "Why don't you just stay for the stupid party? For, like, an hour, or something? You'll get your good boyfriend points, and by then she'll be caught up in everything, and she won't even notice if you head out."

Lip has to admit this sounds like a reasonable plan. It's not like Amanda clings to him at parties anyway—she's way more interested in talking to other people. Lip's just a prop that she can point to. An important prop that she values having, but a prop nonetheless. It does impress him a little to find that Ian's still good at figuring out how to play people. He's always had a pretty solid manipulative side, but it's been a while since Lip witnessed him making use of it.

"What about you?" Lip asks, "You're already later than you would've been."

"It's not a big deal. Mickey won't be home 'til late anyway and I don't need to watch Yevgeny tonight. Reisa's got him."

Just as Lip's trying to remember if he ever knew who Reisa was, Amanda comes in carrying about a dozen more plastic bags full of crap.

"So, you're coming to the party, right?" she says to Ian.

"Sounds like fun," he replies.

"Give him a shirt," she instructs Lip, "Otherwise everyone's gonna expect him to clean up after them."

Then she tosses one of the bags to Ian and commands, "Make yourself useful."

"Is it somebody's birthday?" Ian asks, pulling out a roll of masking tape and a couple loosely coiled rolls of used crepe paper streamers.

"Yeah," Amanda replies.

"Whose?"

"Doesn't matter," both Lip and Amanda say.

"Fair enough," Ian says, accepting the t-shirt Lip gives him. He starts unbuttoning his uniform shirt as Lip and Amanda head back out to drag up more party supplies.

* * *

><p>The thing about the party is, once it gets going, Lip really doesn't want to leave. Driving down to the Southside in Friday night traffic, sullen brother in tow, being reminded of all the endless unsolvable problems down there, inevitably getting sucked into some kind of drama…none of that sounds remotely appealing. Especially when you've got drunken, barely clothed college girls to appreciate and drinking games designed by some of the brightest students in the world.<p>

Fiona's been texting him further info after having talked to the Com-Ed billing department, laying out the different payment options they offered, none of which are remotely feasible. But at the party, the biggest problem is that somebody needs to do a run for more Solo cups. Texting back once more, "_I'll figure it out_," Lip tucks his phone into the drawer beside his bed. Just for tonight—just for a little bit of tonight—Lip doesn't want to deal with it.

And Lip feels better about this because Ian, despite a shy start, also seems to be having a good time. In his borrowed t-shirt, he fits in a lot better amongst all these other kids his age and seems to have found a home with the rich bitches from down the hall who squealed when they recognized 'the cute janitor.' Why not let Ian be a weird little celebrity tonight? Sure, he's probably drinking more than he should, but who the fuck is Lip to say anything about that? It's Friday night, Ian's an adult, and God knows the guy could use a little loosening up.

Lip loosens up too. He feels the tightness in his shoulders release and finds himself babbling about an assigned article he'd read on string theory. That's one of the surprising benefits of Chi Poly: Lip doesn't have to hide his enthusiasm for the nerdy stuff. He doesn't have to try and explain it to anybody either. They all know what he's talking about and can easily keep up. Sometimes it feels like he's talking to a bunch of other Lips and, as narcissistic as he realizes it may be, he genuinely enjoys it. It's hard work pretending to be dumber than you really are all the time, and it's a relief to not have to do that here.

Lip keeps an eye on Ian throughout, though, wanting to make sure his brother doesn't get talked into a corner by one of the super geeks and end up embarrassing himself. They seem to take a lot of pleasure in ganging up on those they suspect to be intellectually inferior. Lip doesn't have to worry about this, however; from what Lip can tell, Ian's the fucking life of the party.

Ian could always party as hard as the rest of the Gallagher clan, but he was also sort of a quiet partier, content to let others dominate the scene. Somewhere along the way, though, he seems to have picked up some social skills—maybe while tending bar?—and Lip's impressed and amused by how well Ian's managed to chameleon himself into all these wealthy smart kids and come off as charming. Is this new or has this just been what Ian's like when he's not around his family? It's kind of fascinating. Lip makes a mental note to describe it to Fiona—she'd be interested to learn this too—but then one of Amanda's sorority sisters (a cute one Lip's had a minor thing for) starts talking to Lip, and he immediately forgets all about Ian's mysterious charm and telling Fiona about it.

Somehow, a couple hours get away from Lip, then a couple more. The drunker Lip gets, the less he cares about keeping tabs on Ian. He sees his brother dancing at one point, grinding up against some chick while the rich bitches (and is that Kuz?) cheer them on. Then later he comes across Ian giggling like an idiot while one of the rich bitches snorts coke off of The Unabridged William Shakespeare in front of him. The thought passes through Lip's mind that there's no way that chick would share her coke with him—rich kids are way less generous than poor kids when it comes to sharing drugs—and that's enough to allow Lip to forget about it. Instead, he finds Amanda and they fuck standing up in somebody's dark dorm room he's never been inside before. There is a poster of Che Guevara staring down at him the entire time and it cracks Lip up as he slams his hot fucking girlfriend into the wall again and again beneath the revolutionary's judgmental gaze.

Cocky and triumphant post-lay, Lip struts down the hall and happens upon Ian in somebody's room where they've set up a crazy series of beakers and tubes, ball bearings in tracks, weights and pulleys and levers that delivers beer from a keg at one end to an open tube at the other. It's not quite clear what it is because the container is tinted, but some other liquid gets added along the way. It's the kind of thing the engineering students revel in building just because.

A group of students is crammed into the room, watching while Ian and some dude call out numbers and roll dice to see who takes another drink from the end of the tube.

Ian loses for what appears to be not the first time, and the crowd hoots as he makes he way over to the contraption, lies down on his back and positions the tube over his mouth. Then his partner drops a ball bearing down a track and a series of Mouse-Trap-like devices set off until Ian gets a generous mouthful and everybody cheers.

Ian climbs slightly unsteadily to his feet as he swallows and accepts their applause. He notices Lip then and says, "It's probability!" Then Ian laughs and adds, "I really am the unluckiest guy in the world!"

Lip looks at Ian's dice partner skeptically, not remembering his name, but recognizing him from another party, then turns back to Ian.

"Have you won once?" Lip asks.

Ian shakes his head, still laughing a little. He's flushed and very drunk.

"You're playing probability games with a fuckin' math major, you idiot," Lip informs him, "It's got nothing to do with luck."

"You should play him," Ian says merrily. Then he turns to the spectators and informs them that, "Lip's a genius."

Lip pushes Ian out of the way with some frustration and squats down across from the other kid. Briefly, the kid explains the rules of the game and Lip nods. Ian wobbles beside him.

The kid rolls the dice and calls out "Seven" as Lip calls out "Nine." Then Lip rolls the dice, calling out "One" while the kid calls out "Two." Then they each roll one of the die and come up with a total of eleven.

"Shit," Lip mutters as the spectators laugh. So much for his attempt to teach this jackass to pick on someone his own brain-size.

Lip gets himself into position with the tube over his mouth and tries to prepare, but he ends up almost choking as he receives a lot more liquid than anticipated and it burns his throat. He stumbles to his feet, wiping the excess from his chin and hisses at Ian, "What is that, a fuckin' boilermaker?"

"I think so," Ian says, "I've had, like, six."

"Five," the dice kid corrects him.

"Five," Ian repeats. Then he laughs and hugs Lip and Lip doesn't remember the last time he saw his brother smiling so genuinely. Despite Lip's embarrassment at not exactly being able to avenge his brother's honor, Lip feels a surge of pride at having been able to give this to Ian tonight. Some part of Lip wants so badly to see Ian happy again. He's been sad for so long.

Lip claps Ian's back and says, "I think as a general rule, Gallaghers should avoid dice games, okay?"

Ian steps back from the hug and gives him a strange smile that Lip can't interpret. Then Ian bends down and fucking kisses Lip on the forehead, like he's goddamned Liam, or something.

Ian continues smiling that weird smile, then he says, "Chubby little baby Frank."

Lip stares as Ian turns and, listing to one side a bit, heads out of the room and back to the rest of the party.

Lip continues to stand there in shock. "My chubby little baby Frank" was what Monica used to call Lip when they were little and she was in a particularly affectionate mood. Lip was by no definition a chubby kid—he just wasn't scrawny like Fiona and Ian were—but Monica used to pinch his cheeks and call him that anyway. Lip also, when he was younger and blonder, looked a lot like Frank, which, oddly, was Lip's big selling point to his mother, who otherwise always favored Ian. Lip hasn't thought about the pet name in years, had completely forgotten about it, actually. Hearing it now brings on a whole wave of confusing emotions that Lip is absolutely in no state to deal with.

He shakes it off, though, turns back toward the other partygoers and steps over to the boilermaker contraption.

"You gonna show me how this shit works, or what?" he asks.

* * *

><p>At three in the morning, Lip's in the middle of a mellow, stupid conversation with a kid from one of his classes when Lip stops mid-sentence.<p>

"Anybody seen my brother?" he asks.

"I think he was making out with Hailey—the Sigma Lambda girl?"

"Yeah, no," Lip shakes his head as he climbs unsteadily to his feet, "That doesn't sound right."

"Didn't he go for a beer run? Big, fat blonde dude, right?"

"No," Lip shakes his head again, "That doesn't sound right either."

Lip stumbles into the hallway and then braces himself against the wall as he makes the rounds, checking rooms, calling out, "Ian! Hey, Ian, you dumb shit, where are you?"

When he has checked every room and found himself at the elevator again, Lip starts to get a little worried.

"Ian!" he hollers at the top of his lungs, though it gets drowned out by the music.

"Shit," he whispers. He slides down the wall until he is crouched down on the floor with his head in his hands. If anything happened to Ian…shit…shit fuck shit…

Then an idea occurs to him and he tries to stand up quickly. That doesn't work so well, though, so he compromises and gets on his hands and knees. He crawls sloppily toward the men's washroom.

He doesn't even have to call out his name—Lip sees him as soon as he pushes his way into the room. Ian's lying on the floor in one of the stalls, curled like a comma around the base of a toilet.

"Hey," Lip hisses, "You all right, Ian?"

He just gets a groan in response, but that in itself is reassuring. Lip crawls over slowly, hands squeaking against the floor, and he tries not to think about all the disgusting things that must be on this tile.

Ian opens one eye when Lip leans over him, then closes it immediately and groans again.

"I shouldn't have drunk so much," Ian whispers.

"Yeah, same here," Lip says, "You gonna throw up?"

"Already did."

"Feel better?"

"Not really."

"Okay."

"I just wanna stay right here," Ian mumbles, pressing his face harder against the tile, "It's nice and cool here."

"It's pretty gross, man."

"No, they just mopped this floor this morning. It's okay."

"Inside information, huh?"

"Please stop talking."

"Yeah," Lip says, closing his eyes in an attempt to make everything stop spinning, though it doesn't seem to help much, "That's not a bad idea."

Without really thinking about it, Lip finds himself sliding down and resting his head on Ian's hip. He only intends to stay there long enough to stop feeling dizzy, but then he passes out.

When he opens his eyes next, Kuz is bending over the both of them. "You guys okay?"

Lip pulls himself up to a sit and uses a hand to try and steady his sloshing brain.

"You weren't kidding when you said Gallaghers know how to party," Kuz says.

"I wish it was more impressive," Lip mumbles. He peers at Ian, but his brother is passed out cold. "Where's Amanda?" Lip asks.

"Left a couple hours ago. Said she wasn't gonna stick around and watch you puke on yourself."

"Probably a good call."

Lip tries to wake Ian, but he won't budge, and Kuz has to help Lip walk Ian's dead weight back to their room. They dump him on Lip's bed, then Kuz tells Lip he can go ahead and take the other bed.

Lip is puzzled for a second then understanding dawns on him. "Who you hookin' up with?" he asks.

Kuz grins. "Ashley."

"That the chick with the hair from the eighth floor?"

"Yeah."

"Nice. You been tryin' to tap that for a while, right?"

"Since Spring term."

"Well, Jesus," Lip says, "Get goin'."

After Kuz is gone, Lip runs a hand through his hair and stands there in the space between the beds. He's not really tired anymore, just a little woozy. At a loss for what else to do, Lip starts removing Ian's boots. Lip gets kicked at once in the process, but Ian doesn't really wake up. He's always slept like brick.

Once Ian's boots are removed, Lip figures there's not much more he can do for him. Lip strips himself down to his boxers and gets into Kuz's bed.

It's weird being on this side of the room—everything looks slightly different from the opposite perspective. It's also weird sharing a room with Ian again. It's been almost two years since they were still bunking together in the boys' room at the house, before Lip moved into Frank's old room, before Ian ran off to join the army, before Lip left for college, before Ian moved in with Mickey. A whole lifetime has passed in those two years.

Yet Ian still breathes exactly the same, Lip notes with a little smile to himself. For sixteen years of his life, Lip was intimately acquainted with the sound of Ian's breathing. He could read it the same way people who live by the ocean can read the tides. Lip could tell when Ian was lying awake in the dark, when he was just drifting to sleep, when he was deep in sleep, when his sleep was troubled, when he was shortly to awaken.

Lip could also—and this thought causes Lip's smile to turn into a grin—tell by the sound of Ian's breath when he was doing other things in his bed than simply lying there awake or sleeping. And Lip had no doubt that Ian could tell when Lip was doing it too. They both seemed to have hit upon the discovery at the same age of what one could do with ones dick and a little hand lotion under the covers at night. Motherfucking magical. They both also seemed to have independently come to the same conclusion that each should never point out what the other was doing and tease him about it; as long as they both pretended to be ignorant of what was happening on the other's side of the room, they were both free to churn away without fear of retaliation. It was a little like Mutually Assured Destruction, only with dicks and cum. A lot of cum. Jesus Christ, that room had reeked of cum. To this day, in fact, any time Lip catches a whiff of cum, he is immediately transported back to that musty little twin bed, fapping away while hearing Ian's breath hitch and jerk four and a half feet over.

In a strange way, though, Lip had kind of treasured those experiences. It was like brotherly bonding as they slid (one-handed?) into adulthood and adult pleasures; they were together in this, even if they never spoke directly about it. And Lip had taken great pride in crossing this threshold with his brother—he shared his best magazines, best videos, shared it all generously, trying to give Ian anything Lip thought he'd like. Ian shared what he'd collected as well, though Lip wasn't all that into it. Ian was really into big tits, and Lip wasn't that much of a big tit guy. Lip had, in his more know-it-all moments, engaged in playing a little Freud and amused himself with the thought that Ian's fixation on tits probably had to do with having been so close to Monica when he was little—some good, old fashioned Oedipal shit. Of course, Lip would figure out later that Ian's fixation on big tits was just Ian trying desperately to fake what he thought the most hetero kid in the world would be into. And big tits forever after made Lip a little depressed.

Lip remembers so clearly the moment he found Ian's real stash of porn. He remembers smiling over Ian's lovingly cut and pasted collection of tits, remembers thinking he'd happened upon Ian's secret stash of really good stuff that the selfish little shit wasn't planning on sharing. And Lip remembers his shock when he opened the folder and found out what Ian had really been hiding.

At first, Lip was confused. He thought maybe Ian was playing some sort of prank on him. Then Lip realized that, no, this really was Ian's secret stash and it was all fucking dudes, and that was what Ian liked. That was a bizarre and bewildering revelation, having to instantly re-write so many things Lip thought he knew about his brother. It also hurt. Ian had been _lying_ to Lip, all those nights with the cum and the Vaseline Intensive Care and their shared bond. The procurement of the big titty magazines, the smirky double entendres, the shared grin and murmured comments about how hard particular videos were making them when they watched them together on the laptop…Ian had been straight-up conning him. He'd played Lip like a goddamn piano, and Lip felt like a fool. But it was also unsettling to realize how deceptive his brother had been. This wasn't the Ian that Lip always knew.

Lip had also felt weirdly hurt. Ian didn't care enough to tell his brother this enormous piece of information, despite the fact that Lip had never kept anything from Ian. Sure, Lip could understand Ian keeping this a secret from other people—they wouldn't understand—but to not tell Lip? Lip had always been Ian's biggest support in everything, and there was no one in the world he felt closer to. That had apparently meant nothing.

That sense of betrayal was stinging Lip the most when he confronted Ian. It was all Lip could think about as they shared the joint and Lip told him about how Karen Jackson had blown Lip during their tutoring session that afternoon.

Lip's anger grew into a white hot flame as Ian smiled, played along, acted like they were still in this together. Liar, liar, shitty little liar.

"I thought we told each other everything." That was what Lip had led with, easing Ian into awareness of his guilt. Then Lip had tossed the evidence at him like a courtroom lawyer on a TV show.

Ian's breath stopped cold. Lip's keenly trained ears caught that. Lip said nothing to ease Ian's nerves, though. Part of him wanted Ian to suffer. Lip watched as Ian's hand seemed to go numb, the joint dropping from his fingers to the bedspread without Ian not even appearing to be aware of it.

Ian just sat there, a breathless, colorless mute. Then he stood hastily, the folder dropping, naked men and their cocks spilling out across the bedroom floor. Without a word, Ian stepped over them and made his way to the bathroom.

Though Ian ran the water, Lip could hear his brother being sick. Lip figured it was the guilt that made Ian sick, the realization of how selfishly he'd betrayed his brother, and Lip had been somewhat satisfied by that. He'd hurt Ian a fraction of how much Ian had hurt him, and Ian was remorseful. Lip felt okay to start forgiving him after that.

Lip rescued the joint before it really singed the bedclothes and he smoked it himself as he swept up all those giant, veiny cocks, all those flexed, massive thigh muscles, all those glistening pecs.

Just as Lip got the last one safely back inside the folder, Carl leaned into the doorway, grinning because he was still at that age where bodily functions were hilarious.

"Ian's puking," Carl announced.

"Yeah," Lip agreed, "Sounds like it."

"Why?" Carl asked.

Lip shrugged. Then he took the joint from his lip and wiggled it. "Bad pot maybe," he said.

"Why aren't you puking then?"

"Some of us have stronger constitutions. More guts."

Carl seemed confused by this, but then Debbie appeared behind him in her bathrobe, looking excited.

"Fiona and Veronica brought a new guy home," she said, "We should go say hi. He's really cute!"

"You spyin' again?" Lip asked.

"He's really cute," Debbie repeated, as if that excused her eavesdropping. It had become clear already by that point that Fiona, Lip, and Ian were having little success in getting Debbie to break her less appealing habits. It would be come very clear eventually that nobody was ever going to be terribly effective at stopping Debbie from doing anything she decided she wanted to do.

"Well, go on down then," Lip said, "Say hello."

Debbie and Carl scampered down the stairs, eager to meet somebody new and to have any excuse to push off their bedtime a little longer.

Lip snuffed out the joint, pocketed it for later, and gave a quick rap on the bathroom door.

There wasn't any reply, but the door wasn't locked, so Lip let himself in. Ian was sitting on the floor with his knees bent and his arms folded over them, his head leaning against the side of the bathtub. He didn't look up.

Lip stepped forward, turned off the faucet, and said, "Fiona's got some new guy downstairs."

Ian continued to be silent, continued staring at the floor.

"Word on the street is he's pretty cute," Lip said, "Maybe if you play your cards right, he'll bang ya both."

Ian didn't lift his head, but he glowered from beneath his brow.

Lip gave a little tap of finality on the doorframe and said, "Clean yourself up and come downstairs."

Then Lip had strolled down to meet Fiona's newest lay. Lip felt fairly contented about how the confrontation had gone. He'd made his point, made Ian feel bad for keeping this from him, and now everything was out in the open. It was a good place to start the process of fixing things. Lip didn't know yet how he was going to fix things, but he was certain he'd figure something out.

It wasn't until quite recently, as Lip's become more concerned about Ian being out in their neighborhood, that Lip has thought back to that night and considered the possibility that it wasn't guilt that made Ian throw up. The massive secret Ian had been keeping for who knows how long had been found out. Ian hadn't been guilty; he'd been fucking terrified. And it was Lip who made him feel that way. Some protector.

Lip glances over at Ian, sound asleep in the other dorm bed. His arms and legs are sprawled wide, hanging off the edges of the mattress. He barely resembles the kid he was back then, curled up protectively beside the bathtub with fragile birdy shoulders.

"Hey, Ian," Lip says now, trying to wake him up, needing suddenly to hear his voice, "Ian—you awake?"

But Ian's breath does not change, and Lip returns his eyes to the acoustic tiles that make up the ceiling. In the dim dark, he can just make out the aluminum grid that holds them together, the dimpled texture of the individual squares.

Lip fell pretty quickly back into the role of protective older brother after confronting Ian that first night. It was Lip's responsibility, had been since forever because, much as Ian tried to avoid it and doggedly pursued the straight and narrow path, Ian seemed bound for trouble. Or, more precisely, trouble seemed bound for Ian. This was just the latest example. Of course Ian couldn't just be a normal kid, lusting after girls who were a pain in the ass but ultimately harmless; Ian had to get his dick hard over dudes, setting himself up for a lifetime of beat-downs and rumors and, sure, why not, possible death.

But Lip was also skeptical. Sex was weird, right? Sometimes Lip was surprised by the random shit that got him going; it didn't seem out of the realm of possibilities that Ian was just fucking confused.

The more Lip thought about this while lying in his bunk that night, listening to Ian be wide awake in the dark to the left, Carl snoring blissfully to the right, the more Lip started to think that Ian had simply been won over to the idea of being gay. Ian was always a vulnerable soul in search of an ideology, always on the lookout for a group to which he could pledge membership and instant loyalty. First it was the Cub Scouts, then the Little League, then, briefly and weirdly, a stint as an altar boy at St. Tim's, then of course, the military. Lip figured that Ian's identity as gay had less to do with biology and much more to do with some combination of a need to belong and a desire to sign his life away to the homoerotic fantasy camp that was the Marine Corps. Ian was so naïve and trusting. Probably somebody had called him a faggot, and Ian had fallen in love with the idea.

All Ian really needed to set himself straight (silently, Lip commended himself for that pun), was to have some chick's lips on his dick, like Karen Jackson had done for Lip earlier that day (fuck, that was good). There'd be no more of this nonsense once Ian had an actual chick suck his actual dick. She'd blow (good one again) those disgusting pictures of dudes from Ian's mind forever.

Then the plan started to form in Lip's head and he'd been able to sleep at last, content in the knowledge that the next day he was going to fix everything for his brother.

Lip has wondered for years now why Ian ever went along with that plan, why he ever consented to getting sucked off by Karen Jackson. For a long time, Lip took it as a sign that Ian wasn't 100% certain of the whole gay thing and could possibly still be coerced to the safer side. More recently, though, Lip's come to accept that this probably was never the case; Ian was likely quite certain of his sexuality for a while by that point. But the only answer that makes sense then, the only reason Lip can think of that Ian ever agreed to such a thing, is that he did it to make Lip happy. And the thought of that just fucking breaks Lip's heart.

It was Karen who eventually pointed out to Lip that he had his head lodged firmly up his own ass with his attempts to save Ian from himself. As they boarded up the Jackson's front window together, she pointed out that if Ian actually was gay then Lip might want to stop acting like the guys at her dad's church and start thinking about the fact that Ian was going to have a hard enough time being gay in their neighborhood without his brother adding to the pile on. Karen could be ruthlessly practical, and she had a top of the line bullshit detector. Lip had really liked that about her.

_Karen_. Frantically, Lip returns all thoughts of her to that lead-lined box labeled 'do not think about ever' and slides it back into the safety deposit system in the furthest reaches of his brain.

She'd been right, of course. Lip left her house that afternoon and headed over to the Kash 'n Grab, determined to let Ian know that he had his brother's support. The anticipation of how grateful Ian would be, how relieved, made Lip feel pretty good.

But, then, fuck. That Pakistani pedophile and Ian's stupid Bambi-in-the-headlights face had confirmed all of Lip's worst suspicions and fears. And it had happened right under Lip's nose. Fuck fuck fuck. And fuck Ian for being so naïve and so fucking _Ian_ and fuck that pervert for taking advantage of him just like all those other opportunistic assholes had been trying to do all Ian's short fucking life. And fuck Lip for totally fucking up and allowing this to happen. Fuck. _Fuck_.

Lip had never failed so hard at something in his entire life and here now he'd failed at his biggest fucking responsibility. It made him ill, and it made him feel like he couldn't breathe right, but more than anything, it made him incensed.

Eventually, he was able to get control over this panic by re-directing his anger toward Ian. How the hell was Lip supposed to do his job looking out for Ian when Ian kept these things from him? Trouble had come for Ian, like always, and the fucking little idiot had gleefully knelt down and sucked trouble's dick.

By the time Ian got off work that night, Lip had pacified himself with a plan. They were going to go talk to Tony, see how they could bring this to the police without it getting out to the public, without anybody finding out that it was Ian. Lip had his speech all prepared, the individual points of cool logic he was going to present to his brother, even a patronizing reassurance that it wasn't Ian's fault, because that was probably good to have in place too.

The plan and the speech went out the window, though, when Ian came into the room. The sight of Ian in those bright, new shoes that certainly had been a "gift" from that pervert made Lip forget about being calm and reassuring. Instead, all Lip wanted to do was smack his brother over the head with the truth. Ian needed to know how stupid he was and that this was a very serious mistake but, most of all, Ian needed to know that this was on him.

"He bought them for you, didn't he?"

Lip expected Ian to deny this, but when he just acknowledged that this was true, his nonchalance made Lip lose his shit. He grabbed blindly for any weapon he could find and his hands landed, once again, on guilt.

"He's married," Lip blurted out, knowing as he said it that this would be meaningless to Ian—what the hell did marriage mean to any of them?—so Lip added, "He's got kids," because that surely would hit at one of Ian's weak spots.

Indeed, pain dashed across Ian's face at this and, encouraged, Lip found himself shouting the kicker, the one thing that would point out Ian's naïveté and just how easily he'd let himself be played:

"What else does he buy for you, Ian?"

But Ian didn't seem to get the full implication. He answered back, truculent but almost smug, "Stuff. Now and again."

Lip sputtered at this, incredulous ("You're happy with that? What's that make you, huh?") until the term he'd been trying not to say finally fell from out of his mouth:

"Fuckin' kept boy."

And that's when Ian lost it. He grabbed Lip by the collar and, with startling swiftness, slammed him into the wall. The words Ian was spitting out were ridiculous, childish justifications, but his rage was sobering. Lip had never been on the receiving end of so much bald hatred from his brother.

Lip _had_ seen Ian direct this rage at others a handful of times, though, and had dealt with the fall-out. Ian had been a good-natured kid from day one, easy-going and passive to the point that one could believe he had no temper to speak of. But this seemed to present an irresistible challenge to some people to poke at Ian and push, push, push, amused by the novelty of so little resistance. Frank was maybe the worst offender. It wasn't that Ian didn't get angry, though; he just quietly bottled it all up. But the building pressure in those bottles had a tendency to lead to explosions.

As Ian continued gripping Lip dangerously close to his throat, he ranted on absurdly about his love for Kash and tried to argue the case against Lip saying anything to anyone. But Lip was thinking back to Kyle Boozlee, and the three pins it had taken to put his leg back together. None of them had ever found out what it was that kid said or did that drove Ian into that particular rage, but it had been a wake-up call, alerting them all to what Ian's sleeping dragon temper could lead to.

There had been talk then about the Boozlees pressing charges, talk of Ian going to juvie. Thankfully, the situation had eventually gone away, but Ian's alarming rage clearly had not. As Lip stood pinned by Ian's white-knuckled hands, Ian's eyes narrow and dark and boring into him, Lip wasn't so much sacred for himself as much as he was scared for Ian. His spindly little body didn't seem built to handle that much rage.

But Ian's grip loosened as he grew exhausted, and his anger dissipated. Lip took the opportunity to shove Ian off, not without a couple of choice comments (some bullshit about Muslim fundamentalists and gutless gay boys-Lip couldn't _not_ say it). Lip maintained his dignity and the illusion of being unruffled, but he got out of there quickly. Sometimes the best way to save Ian from himself was to let him alone.

Lip left Ian alone all night to cool off and didn't go back to him until the next morning when he found Ian in the van looking small and harmless once more.

Lip had taken the night to cool off himself as well, and he'd come to a difficult decision. He'd decided to back off and leave Ian to make the mistakes he was so dead-set and determined to make.

Lip attempted to tease Ian first, bringing back their usual jokey goodwill. He shoved a gay porno magazine at him, made some funny crack about it, but Ian's iciness would not thaw. So Lip switched gears into serious bro mode, tried to keep it chummy and cool, tried to get Ian to tell him the rest. Lip was shocked when Ian actually did this with surprisingly little prodding.

Roger Fucking Spikey. Holy shit, Ian was telling the truth and, holy shit, Ian had been sneaking around and getting laid while Lip was still cuming into dirty tube socks. Lip was more than a little perturbed about this revelation. Mindlessly, Lip started babbling some nonsense about human biology, or some crap, retreating into logic, as he always did when he felt unmoored.

Then Ian started laughing and Lip knew there was no going back. The simple joy on Ian's face as he found a fallacy in Lip's logic (the rare occasions Ian could do this always seemed to delight him), the relief of seeing Ian happy again after all these tense days…

Lip didn't know if this was the right thing to do—he knew in his heart that in many ways it was not—but Lip chose his brother's affection over better judgment. Maybe it was selfish, but Lip knew he'd choose that laugh over all reason every time.

Ever since Lip found that manila duck blind of cut and pasted tits, things with Ian stopped ever being easy. It felt like Ian entered a world then that Lip could never understand, and Lip hasn't really known how to guide him through it. Especially once Mickey Milkovich came into the picture and brought Ian so much grief; it has killed Lip to see the pain that fucking lowlife has caused his brother. But Lip is past trying to fight that. There isn't any point. Ian falls in love with everything—Kash, the military, Mickey—too easily and too obsessively. When you have Ian's love, it is ferocious and impenetrable.

But when you lose Ian's love, that's it; it's gone. Lip knows this now firsthand.

* * *

><p>Lip wakes up in a panic to someone pounding on the door of the room. It takes him a second to figure out why he is in the other bed, why his head is throbbing, why the sight of his own bed empty is troubling. Was that a dream that Ian was here last night? It couldn't have been…right? Just how much did he drink last night?<p>

He stumbles to the door and notes, to his concern, that it is not locked. Lip opens it to find Fiona and Mickey standing in the hall, their coats damp with melting snow and their faces wearing similar expressions of distress.

"Where the hell have you been?" Fiona demands, slamming Lip's chest with both palms.

"I was sleeping. What the fuck?"

"You don't answer your fucking phone?" Fiona snaps, "Been trying to get a hold of you the whole night."

Lip remembers the phone tucked in the nightstand drawer, but says nothing about it. He steps out into the hall with them and rubs his eyes. "What's going on?" he asks, wondering just why the hell Mickey is here.

"Ian's missing," Mickey answers, looking stricken.

"Never came home after work last night," Fiona rushes to explain, "No call, no nothing. Tony's got a couple guys out lookin' for him. Deb's up in Boystown, Carl's—"

"Fiona—" Lip starts to interrupt her, but is in turn interrupted by Mickey.

"He ain't got his phone with him," Mickey says, "No wallet, no nothin'. Just fuckin' walked off from work and never—"

They all stop trying to talk over each other at once as the door to the men's room swings open and Ian steps out. He's not looking up as he shuffles, half-asleep, back toward Lip's room. He doesn't see them until Mickey mutters, "Aw, Jesus Christ," and runs a few steps to embrace him.

Ian stiffens in surprise as Mickey grabs him and Lip can't take his eyes of the bizarre sight. Mickey looks like he's only a moment away from tears as he squeezes Ian. "Ah, fuck," Mickey mutters, "fuck."

Mickey slowly detaches himself, having apparently remembered his audience, as Ian gives him a bewildered look and continues walking toward Fiona and Lip.

"Hey," Ian says, "What's going on?"

Fiona and Mickey's faces both take a similar journey from confusion and relief to anger.

"Fuckin' _hey_?" Mickey sputters at him.

Fiona turns to Lip and asks, "He was here the whole time?"

"I…" Lip struggles to remember the night before and try to give at least some of the explanation that is being demanded of him, but his head is pounding so loud it's keeping him from thinking properly. "I didn't know he was missing," he says, though it sounds tiny and pathetic to his ears, "There was a party. We, you know, we just…we were partying."

Fiona slaps Lip.

"You were _partying_?" she says and then repeats this even louder, "You were _partying_?"

"_Fuck_. _You_." Mickey says to Ian.

"I should've called," Ian says, having as hard a time putting words and ideas together as Lip from the sound of it, "Lip was gonna drive me home, but…you know, we were pretty drunk and then…It didn't seem like a big deal…"

"Oh, my god," Fiona mutters. She puts her hands up in the air and shakes her head in disgust.

"Didn't seem like a big deal," Mickey repeats and Lip is actually alarmed by the glare Mickey is directing at Ian.

"Debbie almost had a goddamn panic attack," Fiona informs Ian, "She was up hyperventilatin' at four in the mornin'. I hope you had a real fuckin' good time."

"Shit," Ian murmurs.

Then Fiona steps back to address Ian and Lip together. "You're both fuckin' assholes," she says.

Mickey grabs Ian's shoulder and tries to pull him toward the elevator. "Come on," Mickey says, "Lets go."

But Ian shrugs him off roughly. Now it's Ian who looks pissed.

"Just what the hell did you think happened?" Ian asks Mickey.

"What?" Mickey furrows his brow at Ian, "Though you walked off in a…in a…in a state, or somethin'."

Ian presses his lips together tight and tilts his head in frustration, as if it's taking all his control not to say something.

"Ian…" Lip cautions.

"Come on, man," Mickey says with an air of exhaustion, "What'd you expect us to think?"

"You never came home all night," Fiona says, "No word or anything. We were so worried, Ian. Thought you were out there without your phone, your wallet…who knows what—"

"So, the first thought is 'Ian must've gone nuts'?" Ian's eyes have grown dark and his shoulders have tensed up. "Don't I even get 24 hours or whatever before they start sending out the bloodhounds sniffing for a body? Or one of those wagons where they put you in a straight jacket and load you up? Isn't there some rule about 24 hours before they do any of that? Or does that not apply when your whole family thinks you're a basket case?"

"That's not fair," Fiona says softly.

"I used to stay out all night all the time. Nobody gave a shit then."

"Ian," Lip cautions, "Come on, man. You and I fucked up. It's our fault."

"If I miss the bus going to my doctor's appointment next week," Ian continues, "You gonna have them dredge the lake?"

"Ian, stop it," Fiona says.

"No," Mickey says, stepping back and shaking his head slowly, "You know what?"

Mickey reaches into the pocket of his coat and takes out Ian's phone and wallet. He shoves them into Ian's hands. Then Mickey removes a blue plastic pill organizer from another pocket and throws it at Ian.

"Come home whenever the fuck you want. Or don't come home. Go fuck yourself."

Mickey takes Fiona roughly by the elbow and snarls, "Come on. We gotta get the kids."

Fiona tosses Lip a helpless look as she allows Mickey, like an angry ad hoc husband, to lead her into the elevator. Then Ian stomps back into Lip's room and slams the door behind him.

Lip just stands there in the hallway and brings a hand to his aching head.

Apparently, you can avoid the drama on the Southside all you want, but it's only a matter of time before the Southside will just pack everything up and bring its drama to you like the world's most dogged catering service.

* * *

><p>Lip and Ian both try to go back to sleep, but it becomes clear that this is a useless endeavor. Instead, they go to the cafeteria for breakfast.<p>

In the elevator on the way down, Lip checks his phone, now retrieved from the drawer. He has twenty-two missed calls. Fiona. Debbie. Carl. Mickey. Mickey. Mickey. Mickey. Mickey. Fiona. Fiona. Debbie. Mickey. Mickey. Mickey. Fiona. Carl. Fiona. Mickey. Mickey. Mickey. Fiona. Mickey.

Lip doesn't listen to any of the voicemails or bother to read the texts. He tucks the phone back into his pocket and ventures a cautious look at Ian.

Ian no longer looks angry, more just tired and possibly a little contrite.

This is confirmed when Ian says, "I feel bad about Debbie."

"Yeah," Lip agrees, "But she'll get over it. She's gotta learn not to get so bent out of shape about everything."

The cafeteria is mostly empty this early on a Saturday morning, and they're able to fill their trays with no waiting. Lip loads up on pancakes and drenches them with syrup. It's all he ever wants when he's hungover. He also grabs juice and coffee.

Ian goes for one of those disgusting rectangular, brick-like slices of "omelet" but, in what Lip considers to be kind of a dick move, asks Mel the cook if he can have one made with egg whites only. Lip makes a face at him while they wait for her to cook it up and Ian gestures to a little sign that Lip's never noticed before.

"It says you can ask for substitutions," Ian points out.

"Yeah. For health reasons," Lip says, "What's your health reason?"

Ian shrugs. "I like to keep my arteries clear."

Lip scoffs. Ian's earnestness is too much sometimes.

"Well," Lip says, "I think Mel likes to do her job and not have to deal with pretentious shitheads making special requests."

Mel returns then with a fluffy genuine omelet of egg whites and bell pepper. She is beaming as she hands the plate to Ian, as if he is the most delightful person she's ever met. Lip's never seen Mel so much as crack a smile before.

"Here you go, honey," she says.

"Thanks," Ian replies with a big smile of his own, "Appreciate it."

As they walk toward the cashier, Ian continues to smile, now in amusement at Lip's indignation.

"When did you get so fuckin' charming?" Lip mutters.

The cashier knows Lip and waves him him through without Lip having to flash his work-study ID. Lip then waves Ian through himself, telling the cashier, "He's with me."

"Such a big shot," Ian comments as they make their way to a table.

"Yeah, they'll bring around the Cristal bottle service in a bit," Lip replies.

They set their trays down at a table and Lip gets busy spreading the big blob of butter, making sure to get an adequate amount on each individual pancake. But Ian doesn't sit down. Lip looks up at him.

"I gotta go use the washroom," Ian explains.

"Didn't you just go?" Lip asks, "You doing lines in there, or what?"

"No," Ian says, looking embarrassed, "I gotta take my meds."

"So? Do it here. No one gives a shit if you take some pills." Lip says this then realizes that it's not the handful of other people in the cafeteria Ian's worried about seeing him take his medicine—it's Lip. Like if Lip doesn't see him take his pills, he'll just forget that Ian has anything wrong with him. Ian really is a weirdo sometimes.

"Sit down," Lip instructs him.

Reluctantly, Ian does. Then he takes out the pill sorter from his pocket and lays down a few tablets, counting under his breath, probably double-checking something.

As Ian swallows his pills, Lip resists the temptation to ask him how the current medication regime is going. Ian clearly doesn't want to talk about it. Things seem to be fine enough anyway. Instead, Lip removes a little flask from his bag and pours a dollop of whiskey in his coffee, then he holds the flask over Ian's cup in offering.

"Ease your way out of the hangover?" Lip asks.

Ian shakes his head and takes another sip of his coffee as Lip returns the flask to his backpack.

"Might wanna be careful," Ian says, "Frank's been easing his way out of a hangover for forty years."

Lip gives him a smile, though the comparison makes Lip uneasy (_Chubby Little Baby Frank…_). He shakes the thought away and takes out a textbook and some notes. Might as well start catching back up with reality again.

Lip attempts to read while he eats for a bit, but he can't concentrate well because Ian is watching him.

"What?" Lip asks, looking up.

"Nothing. Sorry," Ian says, bringing his attention back to his own food, "Just…how can you do that when you're so hungover?"

"Sorta learn to do what you have to if you wanna get through college, you know?"

Ian nods and speaks around a mouthful of egg, "I could never do that. I suck at remembering all that stuff."

Lip shrugs and looks back down at his notes. "Yeah, well, you got other talents," he says.

Lip reads on for a bit, but then fuck it. The shit'll still be here when Ian's gone. He pushes the book aside and looks to Ian expectantly.

Ian looks back at him, as if waiting for Lip to say something. But Lip's waiting for Ian to say something. And neither of them says anything and it's awful.

Then, at a loss for any other more brilliant topic, Lip starts babbling about how he's glad he's not working the breakfast shift this morning. Cleaning the syrup ladles and the sticky syrup pans is the worst, and he ends up reeking of bacon for the rest of the day. It takes two passes with the shampoo to get that stink out. This leads Lip to start bitching about cafeteria work in general, what fucking animals people are, piling up garbage on the conveyor belt with no consideration of the fact that Lip has to pluck all that garbage back off of the trays before he can separate the cutlery and the plates and spray all the food remnants down the drain. He complains about how the hot water inevitably gets inside his latex gloves and makes his hands itch all day, then transitions into how those gloves do nothing to protect his hands from getting burned when he has to take all the steaming plates out of the dish dryer. This, of course, as it always does, all circles back to how much of an anal retentive mongoloid prick Lip's boss is…

Lip cuts his rant off as he notices Ian grinning.

"What's so funny?" Lip asks.

"This is the first time you've ever had to work a real job," Ian explains, "Just funny to hear what a pussy you are about it, that's all."

"Yeah, yeah, all right," Lip admits, but he looks at Ian's stupid egg whites and bell pepper and finds himself irrationally irritated by his brother's sanctimonious breakfast choices.

"How can you eat that shit?" Lip demands to know, "You tellin' me you actually like it?"

Ian shrugs and Lip finds his annoyance growing. Where does Ian get off acting like he's some perfect human being?

"What does it matter?" Lip goads him, "You got the wife and kid, the union job, the shitty house. Time to kick back and let yourself go, right?"

Ian sips his coffee and doesn't say anything or show any reaction, so Lip pushes a little harder.

"Or does Mickey control that too?" Lip asks, "His pretty boy's gotta look a certain way?"

Ian chokes on his coffee at that and Lip smiles though he's not sure if Ian's laughing at how wrong Lip is, how right Lip is, or how patently moronic Lip is. It doesn't matter; Lip feels better. Ian's laugh, when it's genuine, has always made Lip feel better.

Ian mops coffee from his chin with the side of his hand, but the amusement drops out of his expression as he spies someone walking toward them.

Lip turns around to see who it is and finds one of the other janitors heading over with a smile.

"Gallagher!" The guy greets Ian, and for a second Lip expects them to exchange some sort of secret custodial services handshake. They don't, though.

"Hey, Percy," Ian says, "How's it going?"

"Not bad, not bad. Saturdays are all right, you know? Little shits are all hungover, stay outta your way. Get through everything a lot quicker."

Ian smiles, and Lip is offended at how easily this Percy guy makes that happen.

"Hey, this is my brother," Ian says, gesturing across the table, "He's one of the little shits here. Don't worry, though. He's hungover."

"No shit," Percy laughs and extends his hand, "Whole family's smart, huh?"

Lip accepts Percy's handshake, which is more of a sorta fist-grab, and smiles politely.

"Yeah, not _too_ smart, though," Percy says teasingly, then he says to Lip, "You tell this guy he's crazy yet?"

"Excuse me?" Lip asks, his muscles tensing as if for a fight.

But Ian hasn't lost his good nature. "Ah," he says, waving Percy off.

Percy shakes his head in an ain't-that-a-shame fashion and says, "My wife would have my ass if I turned down that shit."

Ian laughs and says, "I haven't said no yet. Just said I'd think about it. I got a lot of stuff going on right now."

Percy continues to shake his head then leans over toward Lip and says, "Kid don't know a good thing when he sees it."

Lip smiles uncomfortably and sits there while Ian and Percy talk about some colleague of theirs, joking about more stuff Lip doesn't get, then Percy heads back to work.

After Percy's gone, Lip folds his arms and waits for Ian to fill him in. Ian seems very interested in his eggs, though, wolfing them down and carefully avoiding eye contact.

"The hell was that about?" Lip demands.

"What?" Ian asks, feigning innocence.

Lip narrows his eyes, and Ian sets down his fork in defeat.

"It's not a big deal," Ian says.

"No, must not be a big deal if Percy's fuckin' wife gives such a shit about it."

Ian takes up his coffee mug and Lip can see him weighing how and what to tell. Sometimes Lip wishes he could turn Ian upside down, shake loose all the information he holds and send it falling like spare change from his pockets.

"That meeting I had yesterday?" Ian begins.

"What meeting?"

"I told you about it."

"You did?"

Ian sips his coffee like he's forcing himself not to say what he was going to say. After he swallows, he says, "Doesn't matter."

"Well, what was the meeting about?"

"They've got a program. It's like a management training kind of thing. But you have to be nominated. They haven't nominated anybody from Custodial Services the entire time they've been doing this. Like, decades."

Even though Ian's saying this with a dismissive tone, Lip can pick out the bit of pride he's trying not to show. It reminds Lip of the time Ian won that rifleman metal in the ROTC and acted like it was no big deal. It wasn't until Lip's guidance counselor made an off-hand mention months later that Lip found out that Ian had actually been recognized as the top sharpshooter in the entire Midwest region.

Lip smiles and says, "Only you would mop floors so well people nominate you for a fuckin' prize."

He meant that warmly, but Ian seems to deflate a little. Lip's not sure why. Lip stalls for a moment, shoveling down a couple bites of pancake, then says, "So, management, huh? Why wouldn't you want to do that? Promotion means more money, right?"

Ian toys with his fork and doesn't look up from the table as he speaks. "It's not really…" he starts, then pushes a stray piece of green pepper across his plate as he struggles to put together what he wants to say. "It's like a whole program thing," he says finally, "You gotta take classes and…it's bullshit. I just wanna do my job and go home."

Lip eats some more of his pancakes as he considers how to handle this. He eyes Ian, takes in his too-thin face and his eerily mannequin-perfect hair (it must be some kind of gay super power that he can manage to keep it looking like that after the night they had) and feels torn. Just three months ago, they didn't know if Ian would be able to keep his job. A few months before that, they didn't know if Ian would be able to function well enough to get a job at all. Maybe they shouldn't press their luck.

"Yeah, well," Lip says, "What does it matter if you're king of the janitors? Like being king of the hobos, right?"

"Yeah," Ian says to his plate as he tucks the pepper neatly under the last little pile of egg, "Exactly."

Then Ian reaches across the table, stabs a piece of pancake and steals it.

"Here," Lip says, pushing his tray toward Ian, "Take the rest. I've had enough rubber cafeteria pancakes to last me a lifetime."

"Nah," Ian replies and stands up, "I better be getting home. Gotta start patching things up."

Lip watches Ian put his coat on then pat his pockets to make sure he has his phone and wallet (and pills). Suddenly, Lip can barely stand the idea of Ian going back to that house, groveling to that lowlife, taking care of his kid, handing over his paycheck to keep all those assholes in diapers and cigarettes and crack. How the fuck Ian ever decided this was anything but a raw deal, Lip will never understand. Half the time Lip suspects that Ian only tells himself he loves Mickey just to spite everybody.

"Hey, uh, no-fault divorce in Illinois is pretty cheap and easy to do," Lip blurts out, "Looked up all the stuff the night you guys got the license."

Ian glances down at him blankly.

Lip adds, "Just FYI."

Ian gives Lip a patronizing smile and a pat on the shoulder. "Thanks for breakfast," he says.

He starts to head out of the cafeteria, but Lip calls after him. "Hey, Ian!"

Ian halts and turns around. "Yeah?"

"Don't, uh…don't be a stranger, all right?"

Ian rolls his eyes at Lip's corniness and turns back on his heel. In two more seconds, he's gone.

Lip pushes away his breakfast tray and takes his book back out. He taps his pen on the tabletop and tries to concentrate, but the loneliness of that now-empty seat across the table is so loud Lip can't hear himself think.

So he retrieves the flask and strengthens up his coffee. He takes three quick swallows. It covers up the taste of impending failure and helps him to believe that it doesn't matter anyway. If it doesn't matter, it's a lot easier to not fuck up.


	3. Gone Back to Red

On Sunday, Lip heads sheepishly to Wallace Street. He expects to find a dark house and everybody pissed at him, but instead the lights are on, the kitchen is as bright and cheery as ever and Fiona greets him warmly.

"Up for spaghetti?" she asks, lifting the lid on the pasta pot to check on the status of the water.

"Sure," he replies. He takes a seat at the counter and waits for her to chew him out, but it doesn't come.

Instead she just struggles to remove the lid off the jar of sauce and asks, "Just stayin' for dinner or stayin' over?"

"Really just came to figure out the Com-Ed situation, but it looks like I'm not needed. You blow someone in the billing department or what?"

Fiona smiles and passes him the jar with the rubber grippy pad. Most of the grip has been worn off it over the years and it's fairly useless.

Lip uses the hem of his shirt and gets the lid off with a satisfying pop.

He sets the jar on the counter, but Fiona's moved on to laying out slices of white bread on a pan and spreading them with _I Can't Believe It's Not Butter _and garlic salt. It does not slip by Lip's notice that she hasn't answered his question.

"How'd you get the electric back on?" He asks bluntly.

Fiona tilts her head as she slides the pan into the oven. "Ian paid the deposit," she admits.

Lip sits back and says, "That so?"

Fiona shrugs. "Think he was tryin' to make up for scarin' everybody on Friday. Then bein' a jerk about it."

"That or he wanted you guys to have all the modern conveniences of the early twentieth century."

"Probably some combination of the both," Fiona says, "Don't know what else we would've done."

Lip doesn't have an answer for that. He hasn't had an answer for days. Lately he feels like he's just burned out on ideas. He's so tired of scheming.

"Where'd he get the money?" he asks because someone has to ask.

Fiona leans back against the fridge and gestures helplessly. "Guess they're doin' all right over there."

"Hmm." Lip grunts. His phone buzzes then and he takes it out. It's a text from Mickey:

_Need to talk._

Fiona leans over the counter to read it as he holds the phone out toward her.

"What's that all about?" she asks.

"Don't know."

Lip texts back:

_I'm on Wallace. Talk now?_

"Ask him if he wants spaghetti," Fiona says, though Lip ignores her. He's not inviting Mickey Milkovich over to have fucking spaghetti.

There's a delay, then Mickey replies:

_Alibi in 5._

Lip just sits there for a moment, staring at his phone. Then he and Fiona seem to heave the same deep sigh. There's no way in hell that text means good news. The only question is how bad the bad news is going to be.

Fiona opens the freezer compartment on the fridge and takes out a half-full bottle of Seagrams Vodka and pours Lip a tumbler full.

"I'll save _my_ drink for when you call to tell me what the crisis of the day is," she says as she slides it over to him.

Lip toasts, "To never ending shit."

* * *

><p>Lip enters the Alibi and stands by the door, removing his gloves as he scans the room for Mickey. No Mickey, but Kev turns around from the tap and grins at the unexpected customer.<p>

"Hey, Professor!" Kev greets him, "Home for Sunday dinner?"

Lip smiles and accepts the whiskey Kev pours for him. "Nah, I'm lookin' for Mickey, actually. He around?"

"Upstairs. In the market for a little…" Kev does a quick hand movement, but Lip cuts off Kev's sales presentation.

"No. Just need to see _him_. Think he's coming down or do I gotta go up?" Lip asks. He's not exactly eager to have whatever conversation he needs to have with Mickey while surrounded by a bunch of middle aged sad sacks getting their cocks sucked by nasty-ass Russian whores.

Kev shrugs. "Probably be down in a few. He doesn't like to stay up there much. Mostly just hangs out down here."

"Great," Lip says, taking a seat at the bar, "I'll wait."

Lip's about three sips into his drink and Kev's boring-ass story about the twins' sleeping schedule when the front door squeaks open. Somehow Lip knows who's about to step through that door even before he sees him. _Fucking Frank_.

Frank doesn't even notice Lip while heading to the bar and Lip doesn't greet him. Frank's got his head down and he's muttering to himself. He seems pretty drunk already but also preoccupied about something.

Lip does his best to be invisible and apparently it's a pretty good job because Frank sits down right next to him and pays no notice. Or maybe he really doesn't give any shit at all about the son he hasn't seen in months.

"Gimme a Sidecar," Frank says to Kev, still looking very distracted.

"Really?" Kev says, "Where do you think you are?"

Frank brushes Kev's annoyed disbelief away and says, "A Tom Collins, then."

Kev shakes his head and fills a glass with Budweiser from the tap.

"There's your Tom Collins," Kev says slapping the glass down in front of Frank. Then Kev stalks over to the far end of the bar, wiping his hands viciously with the towel like he can wipe all his irritation off too.

All through this transaction, Lip's been sitting stock still, following the advice from _Jurassic Park_ that if he doesn't move, the drunken shithead dinosaur won't see him.

It works pretty well too until Frank takes a deep gulp of beer, buries his hand in his hair then turns his head to the side.

Frank blinks in uncertainty then he gives a tired smile. "Hi, Son."

"Hey," Lip says, glad at least that he's free to move now so he can get on with his drink. He takes an appreciative sip.

"Your mother's back in town," Frank says.

Lip pauses, the glass halfway between his lips and the bar. "What?"

Frank traces his finger through a ring of beer his glass has left on the worn-out polyurethane. "Saw her today. She's gone back to red."

Lip sets his glass down hard and says firmly, "I don't care."

"She misses you kids," Frank continues, "She's not doing too well."

Lip grits his teeth, but can't even bring himself to form words. He's quite certain that if he opened his mouth right now, all that would emerge would be some animalistic roar of rage.

"She wants to see you guys," Frank says.

Frank reaches for his beer glass, but Lip grabs his hand and clenches his fist around it, making Frank contort himself on his barstool and give a little squeak of pain.

"Don't you dare bring her to the house," Lip says in a low, forceful whisper, "Don't bring her anywhere near this whole fucking neighborhood."

Frank manages to yank his hand free from Lip's hold and as he rubs it, he says, "She's your mother. She has a right to see you."

"No she doesn't," Lip says, shaking his head, "She lost that right a long time ago."

Frank grimaces and, using his good hand, picks up his glass. "You can't speak for your brothers and sisters," he says, "Debbie and Carl would love to see her. They're not warped and bitter like you, festering in years old resentments and petty, childish bile."

Lip slams his palms down onto the bar. "Are you out of your fuckin' mind?" he hisses, "Debbie and Carl have just started to believe, just started to have a tiny glimmer of fuckin' hope, that Ian's capable of having a half-way normal life, that bein' bipolar doesn't have to mean he's gonna end up a fuckin' lunatic like that bitch. And you wanna just bring her back now? Exhibit fuckin' A of every last goddamn thing they've got to be scared about? You think this is a joke?"

Frank waves away Lip's anger and says condescendingly, "Knowledge is healthy. You can't protect children from the cold realities of life. Makes 'em soft."

Then Franks snorts with fake amusement, "That's probably what happened to your brother."

"You stupid fuck," Lip mutters, shaking his head.

"You know," Frank says brightly, "That's not a bad idea. Ian should see her. He seems to be doing all right—maybe he could help her out. Probably have a lot to talk about…"

Lip is rendered speechless at the horror of this thought.

But from behind him, Lip hears someone say, "You bring that crazy cunt anywhere near Ian, and I'll cut your balls off, all right?"

Lip turns to see Mickey standing behind him, looking utterly casual as he vows to remove his father-in-law's testicles.

"What a lovely, lovely greeting," Frank says.

"We clear?" Mickey says calmly, "You or that bitch go anywhere near him and you'll be bringin' your nuts to the hospital in a Ziploc. He don't need that shit right now."

Frank rolls his eyes but doesn't say anything, which is the closest he'll ever come to admitting defeat.

Satisfied, Mickey inclines his head toward Lip. "You got a minute?"

"Yup," Lip says, sliding off his stool and taking his drink with him. He's never been so glad to see Mickey in his life.

Lip follows Mickey into the back storeroom where all the beer gets delivered and refrains from making a crack about how he thought Mickey's office was the bathroom, like the Fonz.

Mickey takes a seat on a keg and, gingerly, Lip sits down on one across from him.

"What's goin' on?" Lip asks, trying to get straight to the point and rip the Band-Aid off quick.

Mickey hesitates.

"What's wrong with Ian?" Lip asks, "Just tell me. I need to know. You can't pussyfoot around this shit."

"Nothing's wrong with Ian," Mickey replies, appearing almost offended by the assumption, "Ian's fine. Ian's good. This is about you and me."

Lip blinks in surprise. "What?"

Mickey points from himself to Lip and back. "You and me," he says, "We gotta get together. You got some time this week when we can get a beer, or somethin'?"

Lip smirks. "You asking me out on a date?"

"Naw, man, come on," Mickey rubs the back on his neck in agitation, "This is somethin' we gotta do."

"Why?"

Mickey bites his lip. Then he bows his head slightly and rubs his neck again. "Ian's shrink thinks it's a good idea."

"So this is Ian's idea?" Lip asks. Ian is such a passive-aggressive pussy sometimes, sending Mickey to do his dirty work.

"No," Mickey says, scowling emphatically, "Ian doesn't know shit about this."

Lip sits back and takes this all in for a moment. He doesn't know what Mickey's game is here—the guy's an incomprehensible moron a lot of the time—but Lip knows that it can't be good that Mickey's trying to do stuff that Ian doesn't know about. Lip needs to play this carefully, but the idea that there is all of this stuff going on behind the scenes in Ian's life that Lip is not privy to but Mickey is pisses Lip off. Lip can't help himself and ends up just being blunt:

"Why the hell are you makin' plans with his shrink behind his back?"

Mickey looks like he's just been accused of child murder. "I'm not makin' fuckin' plans, dipshit," he says, "And it ain't behind his back."

"Then why is his shrink calling you? Why isn't he calling me? I'm his brother."

"I'm his fuckin' husband."

"Right," Lip says sarcastically, "Yeah. Forgot that."

"And she's not callin' me, all right? That shit's all private, between her and him."

"Then how are you guys having these little conversations, huh?"

Mickey puts his head back and says to the ceiling, "Christ, you are such an asshole."

Lip holds his free hand out, showing that it's still empty of an explanation. Then he sips his whiskey while Mickey takes a moment to cool off and start again. Lip imagines that Mickey must be furiously rubbing his two brain cells together, trying to get the fire to light once more.

"So Ian goes and sees his chick up at the hospital, all right?" Mickey says, as if explaining this to a very stupid child, "And sometimes, she tells him to bring me with."

"What? Like couples counseling? You guys haven't even been hitched a year yet, and you're already at that point?"

"No," Mickey snaps, "It's not fuckin' couples counseling. It's his regular therapy shit, and sometimes he's gotta bring me with. I don't know why. I don't ask. But I go 'cause I give a shit about him, and I give a shit about him gettin' through this. I'm tryin' to talk to you now 'cause I figure you give a shit about him too. But, hey, maybe I'm wrong. He gives a shit about you, though. I don't know _why_. But it matters to him, so I'm tryin' to make this fuckin' work, and you're not fuckin' helpin' at all."

Lip sits back, chastened. "I do give a shit," he says quietly.

"Well, then act like it, all right?"

Lip starts to say something peevish—he just can't stand _Mickey_ lecturing _him_—but he stops himself. Instead, he finishes off his drink then asks, "So, what's the deal?"

Mickey sighs. He looks at the filthy stockroom floor as he explains, "The deal is, it really bothers Ian that you and I don't get on too hot. His shrink says it's like, uh, like a stress thing. Like, a stress point or a stress factor, or somethin'."

"Like a trigger?"

"Maybe. I don't think she said that, though. It's more like…he's got a lotta things in his life eatin' at him, and her whole deal is that if there's some of these things he can make better or get rid of, he should do it, 'cause there's a lotta other shit he can't do anything about. That make sense?"

"Yeah," Lip says, feeling shocked that Ian's shrink has identified Lip as one of the things making Ian's life harder than it needs to be. Lip doesn't like the thought that Ian would ever feel that way about him. He wants to ask Mickey if Ian even defended him at all, argued that Lip wasn't the aggravation the therapist was characterizing him as, but that seems petty to ask. And maybe it was Ian's idea in the first place. That's a disconcerting thought. How deep down the rabbit hole must Ian be if he thinks Lip's a problem?

"So, anyway," Mickey continues, "She said it would be good if you and I got it all on the table…you know, cleared the air, or whatever. Smoked the peace pipe."

Lip nods, trying not to let on what total bullshit he thinks this is. Hearing stuff like this just confirms his belief that therapy's a lot of Dr. Phil nonsense. Nobody acts like therapists think they do, just coming together for heart-to-hearts, sharing a Coke at the local soda fountain. The real world doesn't work like that, and Lip resents Ian spending good money to have some rich bitch with a Mercedes and a degree in pseudo-science try to convince him that it does.

"But Ian said that wasn't ever gonna happen," Mickey goes on, "Said that was impossible. I didn't say nothin' 'cause I try to just let him do the talkin' at these things and not say nothin' if nobody asks me. And nobody did. But I got to thinkin'…why's that gotta be impossible? You ain't stupid. I ain't stupid. We both give a shit about him, right?"

Lip tilts the glass in his hand, watching the one last drop slide achingly slow from one side of the circular glass bottom to the other, becoming a line instead of a drop. He wishes he could just talk to Ian directly. Why does Mickey have to be the intermediary on this? Why's Ian got to be such a goddamn coward if he's got such a problem with Lip? Why does Lip always have to go through Mickey these days?

"Why isn't Ian here with you?" Lip asks, "If this is your big plan to make him happy, why aren't you telling him about it?"

Mickey folds his arms in a defensive posture. "Cause I don't know if this is gonna work," he says, "And I don't want him to know about it if it turns out to be a shitshow. What good does that do?"

Lip doesn't think it's gonna work either, but he's offended by the implication that he can't be civil. And that he gives less of a shit about Ian than this jackass does. Why the hell did Lip even come down here today? He should've stayed up at school and worked on his essay. He could be enjoying some nice celebratory post-first-draft sex with Amanda right now. Why does he keep letting himself get drawn back to this shithole and everybody's never-ending complaints about him?

"So, are we doin' this or what, man?" Mickey asks. "I gotta get back upstairs."

"Fine," Lip sighs, "When you wanna do it?"

Mickey takes out his phone and pulls up a calendar app. Lip can see the dates filled with multiple colored boxes.

"You serious?" Lip says, "Your pimpin' schedule's that full?"

"I got a lot of irons in the fire," Mickey says as he scrolls through the week, "How do _you_ keep your shit straight?"

Lip holds his tongue and takes out his own phone, pulls up the schedule Amanda has synched with the paper one on his wall. It looks remarkably similar to Mickey's schedule, actually, in terms of busyness and color coordination. After a strained minute or two of negotiation, they settle on a time and place to meet later that week.

"Nice doin' business with you," Lip says as Mickey gets up to go.

"Go suck a dick," Mickey replies as he leaves the storeroom.

"Thought that was your department," Lip says, but there's no one there to appreciate his joke. But it really wasn't that great anyway. Even Lip thinks he sounds like an asshole.

* * *

><p>Once he's settled onto the train, heading back up toward school, Lip calls up Fiona.<p>

"You can leave the vodka in the freezer," he says, "False alarm."

"Is it bad if I say it's too late?"

Lip gives a little sniff of amusement that he doesn't really feel.

"So, what was that all about then?" Fiona asks.

Lip sighs, trying to come up with some good way to explain it. He wants to tell her about how Ian's therapist is making Lip out to be some kind of a monster and how Mickey's supporting the idea, and Ian's apparently believing it…Lip wants to tell Fiona because he wants her sympathy and he wants reassurance that she's on his side, but the idea is still too hurtful to put into words.

"Lip? What'd Mickey want?"

"Uh," Lip switches the phone to his other ear and glances at his reflection in the dark window, "He wants to hang out with me. We're gonna play some pool this week."

Fiona barks a laugh. "What, like a playdate?"

"It's not a playdate. I'm not Liam."

"Well, then, what is it? A man date? A bro fest?"

"It's not anything, all right? He just wants to get a couple drinks and clear the air."

"Huh," Fiona muses and all of the teasing drops out of her voice, "That's not a bad idea."

"What?"

"Well, I mean, you and Mickey are kinda…I bet it'd make Ian a lot happier if you got along better."

"What the fuck?" Lip snaps, "So I don't like Mickey. I got very good reasons to not like Mickey. We all do."

"Yeah, but, he's not goin' anywhere. And it's not exactly pleasant when the two of ya are in the same room together. I can't imagine what Ian must feel—"

"Ian's gotta grow up and stop expectin' everybody to baby him. The world isn't gonna bend over to accommodate all his fuckin' issues. He better learn that quick"

Neither of them says anything, and Lip feels a little twinge of regret at what he's said. He didn't mean it to come out quite so harsh.

Then Fiona asks timidly, "So, Ian asked Mickey to hang out with you?"

"No," Lip sighs, "Don't say anything about it to Ian. He doesn't know. This is all Mickey's idea."

"That's kinda sweet."

"No, it's kinda fuckin' manipulative."

"What?"

There's exasperation in Fiona's voice, but Lip doesn't care. "You know Ian's therapist is tryin' to turn him against us?" he says.

"Oh, come on…"

"It's true. She's feedin' him all sorts of bullshit about how we're not any good for him, and he's gotta either change us or cut us out. And you better believe Mickey's right there noddin' his head."

"That doesn't make any sense. Why would Mickey—"

"I gotta go. It's my stop," Lip says and ends the call.

Lip's shaking as he sits there and he crosses his arms tight to try and stop it. He's furious at everyone right now.

And, shit. He forgot to tell Fiona that Monica is back in town.

Lip picks up the phone to call her back, but then he just texts instead because he doesn't want to deal with Fiona trying to get him to commiserate about it:

_Monica's in town again. Keep the doors locked and don't let her or Frank anywhere near the kids._

After a moment, Fiona texts back:

_Shit_

_Yeah_, Lip thinks.

He puts his phone away and stares at his reflection in the window again. The lights in the train car give him a greenish cast, but the combination of the brightness inside and the darkness outside allow him to see himself quite clearly. And all Lip can think as he gazes at himself is that he still looks a lot like Frank. He likes to tell himself that he grew out of it, that the older he gets the more the resemblance fades, but that isn't the case. He's still clearly Frank's son.

When he was little and still gave a shit about Frank's affections, Lip recalls being put out that he was never Frank's favorite. That prize went to Fiona, his firstborn and his girl. It didn't seem fair—everybody was always saying how much Lip looked like Frank, was clever like Frank…Eventually, Lip figured it out—Frank didn't like Lip _because_ he was so much like him. Frank didn't like Frank.

It worked differently for Ian, of course. He looked like Monica, and Lip was convinced that Monica loved Ian best because of this. She doted on him, gave him lots of hugs and kisses she didn't always give to Fiona and Lip, fussed about him being too skinny even if she never managed to do much in the way of fixing it. At the time, Lip was certain this was because Ian was so much like her, and Monica was in love with her little walking mirror, but maybe it was because Ian looked like Clayton. Maybe it was because Ian was just a sweeter kid than Lip and Fiona were. Or maybe it was because he was the baby. Monica always did like her babies best—they were the ones she hadn't yet disappointed.

Monica made Lip nervous because there was no logic to her. He couldn't predict who she was going to be or how she was going to act from one day to the next, sometimes from one interaction to the next. He sussed out this problem from the time he was very young and did his best to keep his distance and avoid dealing with her whenever he could. Ian was a different story, though. Ian seemed to take Monica's swings as natural, sort of rolling with them as they came. They never seemed to cause his devotion to her to waver.

Then she left.

Lip never cried over Monica. Not once. Ian did all the crying for both of them that first time. Lip felt his own pain released through Ian's hysterical sobs and had no need for anything more.

Monica returned, of course, a year or so later, but Ian was no longer the baby then. He had a little sister, then a little brother, then he once again had no more mother, despite all her assurances that it would never be that way again.

Ian didn't cry that second time she left. He was clearly upset, but he'd learned by then how to keep it inside, how to keep a calm face for Debbie and Carl.

Then when Monica returned to have Liam and left again, almost as quickly as Liam appeared, something began to change. Maybe Ian was just getting older—this was about the same time he started losing the babyish quality to his face and looking more like a teenager than a child—but Lip could swear something started to turn hard in his brother. There was almost a steel mesh just under the surface of his skin, like the reinforced glass in the windows at the boys' home where Lip had been during one of their brief trips through the foster care system.

It was chilling and, even though Lip knew it was probably necessary for survival, he regretted ever having longed for Ian's softness to toughen up. Something beautiful in the world had once again been snuffed out. And Lip still blames Monica. He will always blame Monica.

Monica was responsible for Ian being too soft and kind in the first place. Then Monica was responsible for making him so steely and guarded. Finally Monica, in some sort of sick coup de grâce by proxy, was responsible for damaging Ian irrevocably. Lip will never forgive her.

But Ian had always seemed the most like Monica because he was open and loving and gentle. He was like her in her best moments. That resemblance became less noticeable as he grew older and more cynical. There was one aspect of him, though, that continued to remind Lip and Fiona of Monica, and it wasn't the kind of thing he could outgrow like a baby face or innocence.

"_She's gone back to red."_

Frank's words stick in Lip's head as the train continues on achingly slow. All the other stuff that Frank had said, what Mickey had said, all of that is jumping around Lip's skull too, but that one statement keeps bashing up against his prefrontal cortex.

Monica's hair was dyed red when they were little, when it was just the three of them. It was not the unmistakable only-created-in-nature red of Ian's, but close enough to emphasize their shared features of wide-set green eyes, broad smile, and slightly rounded nose. For better or for ill after the first time Monica left, when they looked at Ian, they saw her. And sometimes that was hard. Sometimes it's still hard.

An announcement comes over the PA, something garbled about a delay and signal work ahead, whatever that means. They're between two stations and the train whines toward a halt. As it hits its final, jerky stop, the woman sitting across the aisle from Lip drops her scarf.

He bends down to pick it up for her and the red fabric against the gray floor sets off a memory Lip has not thought about in years.

Ian got sent home from the Cub Scouts for having lice. It happened the month that Lip and Ian were both eight.

Fiona's hands were full with Debbie and Carl when the scoutmaster called, so she sent Lip down to retrieve Ian from the basement of the Baptist church.

Monica had been gone again for a while by that point. Still, it stung fresh when Lip arrived to take Ian home and the scoutmaster's stupid bitch of a wife demanded to know, "Where's your mother?"

Lip ignored her, focused instead on Ian's scarlet ears and the defiant way he held his chin up. All the other boys were sitting in chairs around a long table, knotting short lengths of rope to match a bunch of photocopied diagrams. Ian was separated from them, quarantined on the far side of the room. Nobody had given him a length of rope. Nobody had even given him a fucking chair.

"Where's your mother?" The woman repeated, "I want to speak to Ian's mother."

Lip stepped past her, jerking away as she tried to grab him by the jacket collar.

"Come on, Ian," Lip said, taking him by the hand, even though they'd long been too old and too cool for holding hands by that point.

A few of the other boys started snickering, and Ian wrested his hand out of Lip's and stomped ahead of him. Lip was glad to see at least that the scoutmaster's wife gave Ian a wide berth and didn't try to grab at either of them as they passed.

"_Where_ is your mother?" she asked again.

"She's dead," Lip finally replied, not even caring that this was the kind of thing you weren't supposed to lie about. He knew this would make these assholes feel bad. They should already feel bad, but they didn't, so at least Lip could fix that.

Ian didn't say a word the whole walk home, and he waited outside while Lip went into Walgreens to put the delousing shampoo under his jacket. Usually, Ian would be Lip's cover because Ian always looked so innocent, but Lip didn't push him on it. Lip managed to get the job done without the freckles.

When they got back to the house, Fiona had already stripped all the beds. She'd loaded the sheets into the washer and had the towels piled up beside the machine, waiting for the next round. She had Ian take off his uniform, and she threw it in with the sheets.

She tilted her head, indicating the bathroom upstairs, and said, "You go shampoo. I gotta get all his clothes together and vacuum."

Lip gave Ian a shove toward the stairs and then followed him up.

They didn't say much while they were in the bathroom. Ian just knelt there with his head under the tub faucet, while Lip scrubbed in the stinky shampoo and watched the nasty little white invaders swirl down the drain to their death.

Lip scrubbed until he could find no more little bodies then he scrubbed some more for good measure, trying to get all the invisible eggs like the box had instructed.

Finally, Lip turned off the water and helped Ian up. Fiona had taken all the towels, so Ian sat there, dripping miserably until Lip pulled off his own shirt and wrapped it around his brother's head like a turban.

Lip re-read the shampoo directions once more while fingering the little nit comb that had come in the package. There was nothing left to do, according to the instructions, but Lip didn't tell Ian this. Lip needed to do something more.

"Okay," Lip said, giving a little nod over the box as if in agreement with something he'd read, "Go wait for me out back so we can finish this. I'll get the rest of the stuff."

Ian didn't ask what the rest of the stuff was or what Lip meant by 'finish this.' Ian was naturally obedient.

As Ian headed dutifully downstairs, Lip didn't hesitate to gather the supplies. If he'd hesitated, he might have had to question why he was suddenly so compelled to do what he was about to do. Instead, he just grabbed the scissors along with Frank's razor and shaving cream. Then he filled Debbie and Carl's bathtub toy bucket with water and carried it all down to the back yard.

Ian never questioned him as Lip started snipping off handfuls of Ian's hair. Lip snipped and snipped and snipped until Ian's hair was too short to grasp.

Then Lip paused and asked Ian, "Are you ready?"

"I guess," Ian replied.

So Lip knelt over him and started spreading shaving foam over Ian's head. Ian laughed a little at the sensation, and that gave Lip pause.

Lip stopped and sat back on his heels.

"What?" Ian asked, looking up at him with curiosity.

"Nothing," Lip said, leaning forward once more to complete the job, "Just stop moving."

"Sorry," Ian said.

Lip finished applying the shaving cream and then moved swiftly to the razor before he could lose his nerve.

Though Lip did his best to careful and gentle, Ian's scalp still started bleeding little pin drops of blood in a few places. Each time Lip drew the razor across and this happened, Ian took in a sharp breath between his teeth, but did as he was told and did not move.

Once Lip had shaved the last patch of hair away, he rinsed the razor one final time in the murky water. Then he poured the bucket over Ian's head and stepped back to appraise his handiwork.

Apart from the bits of blood here and there, Ian's scalp was, amazingly, even whiter than the rest of him. It looked like a finger after you remove a too-tight Band-Aid that's been on a while. And, to Lip's sinking disappointment, his brother still resembled their mother, even without the hair. Those same guileless eyes looked back at him expectantly.

Before Lip could say anything, Fiona came out, lugging Carl on her hip.

"You shaved his head?" She sputtered, taking in the scene with her eyes wide, "You didn't have to do that!"

"Yeah, I did," Lip insisted, throwing the razor and the shaving cream into the bucket, "Said so on the box."

"It did?" Fiona asked, switching Carl to her other hip, "Then why would you have to shampoo his hair?"

"To kill the eggs," Lip replied scornfully, knowing that if he could make Fiona feel stupid, she'd believe him.

It worked. Fiona didn't question Lip further. Instead she licked her finger and used it to wipe away a bit of blood from Ian's scalp.

"You look cute," she told him.

Ian didn't appear convinced by this statement, but he seemed resigned to his fate. Without being asked, he started helping Lip sweep up the hair while Fiona took Carl back inside.

"Hey, it's okay," Lip said, reaching out to stop Ian's work, "I got this."

"It'll go faster if it's two of us," Ian replied.

"No," Lip said firmly, "I said I got it. Go inside and put some Bactine on your head."

Ian shrugged and did as he was told. Alone in the yard, Lip swept the bits of discarded Monica onto a piece of cardboard, then dumped the whole thing in the trash.

Inside, Lip found Ian at the bathroom mirror, frowning over his new reflection.

"Now everyone's gonna know," Ian said.

"Everyone already knows," Lip said back, "You think the kids in your troupe aren't gonna be laughing about it at school tomorrow? They're gonna tell everybody anyway."

Ian ran a hand once more over his newly naked skin and set his jaw. "I hate everything," he said.

Lip had patted him on the shoulder and felt better, being able to reassure his brother like that.

Ian never went back to the Cub Scouts. After they'd rejected him, they were dead to him. He focused his attention on Little League instead.

Lip told Debbie that Ian had been kicked out from the Cub Scouts for having lice. The takeaway, he said, was that was why it wasn't worth trying to fit in with any kind of group—they were always just looking for an excuse to kick you out.

"It's all bullshit," Lip told Debbie, "Never pledge your loyalty to anyone but your family or yourself. You got that?"

He didn't know if Debbie knew what half the words he'd said meant, but she nodded solemnly over the head of her baby doll. At least Lip had the validation of knowing Debbie was on his side. Ian had never seen receptive to the same message.

The train starts one more with a lurch and no warning on the PA. Lip folds his hands in his lap and closes his eyes, determined to waste no more time tonight on memories. Two more stops and then he's as far as he can get for now from the Southside and from home.

* * *

><p>Lip has another one of those dreams about Ian being dead. This one makes even less sense than these dreams usually do, but this time Lip's old Calculus instructor says something that Lip finds himself repeating as he startles awake.<p>

Lip rushes to scribble the phrase down so he can preserve its profundity. As his brain moves further into wakefulness, though, he reads it back and realizes that it holds no logic at all:

_Ian died like he lived: in a suitcase._

Fucking gibberish. And macabre gibberish at that.

"Fuck," Lip mutters. His heart is pounding and his shirt is stuck to his back with sweat and it's giving him the chills.

He changes his shirt, fumbling around a bit in the dark, trying not to wake Kuz. Then Lip sits on top of his blankets holding his phone with two hands like a totem.

He scrolls through the previous text messages he's gotten recently from Ian. They're few and far between. If he goes back to last year, though, there's a lot more. Not that the conversations are anything profound—mostly making fun of Fiona or arguing over whose turn it was to pick up what from the store, one long series in which Ian texts Lip questions from his trig exam and begs him to give him the answers—but reading them again makes Lip feel like the brother he used to know might still be around somewhere.

Lip takes a chance and texts:

_You awake?_

But it's 3:14 am and no reply comes.

Eventually, Lip abandons the phone on the nightstand and crawls back under the covers. He's exhausted, but also still keyed up. It's a wretched combination, and it's pissing him off.

Lip kicks his way out of the bed, pulls some jeans on over his shorts and takes his whiskey flask for a walk. He ends up in an empty common area at the end of the hall—it's all modular seating with a hideous geometric pattern on it and framed generic photos of soaring cliffs that are meant to inspire you to study even harder and climb that mountain or some shit. He throws himself down, takes a sip (at last—something that works exactly how it's supposed to), and feels more normal again.

As he sits there in the dead silence of the dormitory floor, feeling like he's unlocked some secret none of these other kids have been clever enough to find, Lip tries to pinpoint exactly when it things started to fall apart. If he can retrace his steps, he can figure out exactly what went wrong and then he can fix it.

The text conversations taper off right around the time Ian ran away to enlist. At first Lip had texted him a lot, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. But Ian had been weird and coy about it, assuring everybody that he was okay but refusing to give any details and ignoring any direct questions. And that had ticked Lip off so much that he stopped texting, leaving it to Fiona to sort out Ian's little stunt.

It never once occurred to them that Ian had even left the city. Lip had reassured Fiona that Ian was couch-surfing in Boystown because of course that's where he was. The two of them had even sat up one night in the Gallagher kitchen talking about how this was probably really good for Ian. He'd be wound so tight that year that it felt inevitable that he'd need a break, some time to fuck off and be irresponsible for a while. Fiona'd been expecting something like that for ages—not running off to god knows where, exactly, but maybe cutting classes, getting a tattoo or something—just some rebellious diversion from feeling like he had to be the good little soldier all the time. Then when Lip introduced the idea of Ian having a walkabout in Boystown, that made all the sense in the world to her.

Lip knew the gay thing made Fiona uneasy because, like Lip, she never knew how to advise Ian—it wasn't exactly her wheelhouse and she suspected there were things they could never understand about his experience. This didn't stop Lip from giving Ian advice (Ian could just not take it if he didn't like it, and that seemed to be what happened mostly), but Fiona didn't want to ever touch the subject because she was afraid of saying something stupid. So the only thing to do when it came to Ian being gay and seventeen in their neighborhood was for Fiona to cross her fingers and hope Ian just somehow knew what he was doing.

Lip assured her that Ian did. Lip didn't tell Fiona what he knew about Mickey and what had happened between them, but Lip was certain there was no coincidence to the timing of Ian's sudden interest in exploring gay culture somewhere other than the Southside. And, shit, if the kid got to walk around in public up there and be himself without fear of getting cold cocked by Terry Milkovich (or by 10,000 other people in the neighborhood), no wonder he didn't want his sleepover party to end. It could even be good for him—seeing what life was like outside of this dump—maybe motivate him to re-focus on school, give up the pipe dream of West Point and settle for regular old college funded by ROTC.

"But, you think he's safe?" Fiona had asked Lip that night in the kitchen.

"Oh, sure," Lip replied, "Bet he's got some sugar daddy puttin' him up his condo, buyin' him clothes and shit. Ian's in paradise. Like gay boy summer camp."

Fiona had been somewhat assuaged by this, but there was still a lot of concern in her eyes. This pissed Lip off further. It was all well and good if Ian needed to run uptown to find his dumbass self, purge fucking Mickey Milkovich from his system, but it was selfish to do it in a way that made Fiona worry, made the kids worry. It wasn't like Ian, but Lip hadn't really thought about that at the time. He'd been too busy being mad at Ian. And too busy with everything else.

And then there were a whole bunch of texts from Lip once the military police showed up and Lip got seriously worried. Ian never responded to any of those texts.

Looking at them now, Lip feels that anxiety all over again:

_Where the fuck are you?_

_Tell me you're ok_

_Please tell me you're ok_

_Where are you?_

_Are you safe? Do you need help?_

_FUCKING TALK TO ME_

_You're scaring the shit out of everybody_

_Where are you?_

_FUCK YOU SHITHEAD ANSWER ME_

_You need to let me help you before this gets any worse._

_Where are you? I need to help you straighten this out._

_You could end up in fucking Gitmo for this shit. _

_Talk to me Ian_

_Tell me where you are and I'll come get you. I can help._

_ANSWER YOUR FUCKING PHONE THIS IS SERIOUS_

That last message makes Lip feel sick. He can almost smell the hospital, hear Liam's pulse monitor, still see Fiona's bewildered look of betrayal as Lip just let the cops haul her off.

Lip drains his flask in memory of his fear that evening. There had never been a worse night in his life. As he sat in that hospital, frozen in panic about everything else, his mind kept wandering back to how obviously high Ian had been at The White Swallow earlier that evening, in front of Debbie and everything. Ian had gone and gotten a drug habit on top of whatever crazy shit he'd done to the Army. Lip had been worried sick until he'd gotten back to the house that night and…Liam. Sitting helplessly at the hospital late into the night, all Lip could think was "Fuck Ian," but at the same time, he wanted desperately to have Ian there with him. Lip had never needed his brother more.

Lip scrolls quickly through the rest of the messages. Ian texted a fair bit when he first came back to the Gallagher house, idiotic nonsense that Lip can't even bring himself to read now.

Lip knew. He knew even then that it was something worse than a drug habit. He probably even knew it was bipolar disorder, but he kept that thought buried too deep to acknowledge. He wasn't surprised at all when Fiona called him. That demon had been hovering around the ceiling all this time, just waiting for someone to speak its name and invoke it.

And then the texts from Ian stop.

There's a few more from Lip that never got any reply:

_How you doing?_

_Mind if I stop by?_

_Miss you man_

_How's it going?_

Then the next text from Ian, sent almost five months later, is completely innocuous:

_Fixed the back door. Don't worry about coming home for it._

The rest after that are pretty much along the same lines. It's boring stuff about the house, conferring about tasks Fiona needs them to do. It's all very polite and all very impersonal. Then Lip's text from earlier is the last thing there, staring back at him:

_Are you awake?_

Lip feels stupid now about sending it. He shoves his phone into his pocket and walks a little unevenly to his room. He slides back into bed, blessedly tranquilized, but before he settles down into a heavy sleep, he retrieves his phone from the pocket of his discarded jeans. He sends one final text, not even caring that it will make no sense to Ian:

_Stay away from suitcases. _

* * *

><p>"What the hell's wrong with your brother, huh?"<p>

Lip glances up from the plate that he's currently scraping fossilized macaroni off of. Jerry, Lip's boss, is looking at him accusingly.

"What he do now?" Lip asks.

"Eddie says he's turning down the Mason-Shulman award. What the hell's wrong with him?"

"Oh."

Eddie is Ian's supervisor over in custodial. Eddie and Jerry are actually brothers and they've worked at the university together since the early 90s. When they realized Lip and Ian were brothers, they seemed to start taking a special interest in them. Lip's found it fairly creepy. Jerry and Eddie are like some funhouse mirror vision of what the future could be if things don't go so well, Lip and Ian still working in food service and custodial, getting overly invested in their underlings out of sheer boredom.

"So he doesn't want to be management," Lip says, dunking the plate back under the water, "So what? Not everybody wants a miniscule amount of authority they can use to lord over everybody else. Not everybody needs that kind of false reassurance of their own relevance."

"It was a big deal that Eddie nominated him for that," Jerry says, paying no attention to Lip's stale dig, "They only pick one employee a year. Out of the whole university. He's a smart kid—why wouldn't he want time to get a degree?"

Lip takes in this new information, but keeps his poker face on.

"Eddie shouldn't be so sensitive," Lip says. He takes the plate out from the water and loads it into the dishwasher rack.

"That's not ready for the washer yet," Jerry says, "It's still got crap on it. Can you talk to him?"

"Eddie?"

"Your brother. I don't think he realizes what he's turning down."

Lip takes the plate back out of the rack and plunges it once more into the water. He scrapes at it again, using his nails through his latex gloves this time.

"Ian does his own thing, man," Lip says, "He doesn't listen to me."

"Isn't that always the way?" Jerry muses warmly, "You know I tried to get Eddie to move into food service twenty years ago. Wouldn't listen to me. Had to do his own thing too, even if it meant supervising toilets instead of dirty dishes. Stubborn shit."

"That's a sad story."

"Yeah, yeah," Jerry says, picking up on Lip's poorly concealed sarcasm, "Pick up the pace, would you? The dishes are stacking up."

Later in class, the TA is going over review material for the upcoming midterm, but Lip's got it all, so he starts doing a little discreet research on his laptop. He starts looking for details on the Mason-Shulman Award. He finds a big section about it on the Faculty and Staff side of the Chi Poly website. From the looks of it, it really is a big deal. There's a ton of information about it, most of it written in empty, public relations speak.

Lip skims it:

…_one recipient per academic year…individual who demonstrates unique character and potential…would benefit from sustained guidance in pursuing higher education…for the betterment of the individual and the university community as a whole…university's commitment to the advancement of faculty and staff…offering educational and economic opportunity to persons who embody the ethics and values of Chicago Polytechnic…support in pursuing the bachelors degree…support for books and fees in addition to tuition waiver per reciprocal ICUS agreement…personal advising…course plan designed to meet individual needs and goals of the Mason-Shulman recipient…applicable leave for course attendance, related obligations, and examinations granted in conference with recipient's staff supervisor pending approval from supervisory board…automatic consideration for appropriate supervisory positions upon completion of program in accordance with SEIU contract guidelines…_

Well, shit. Lip hasn't really been pushing Ian on taking advantage of the tuition waiver his job already offers him, and this has been a more or less conscious decision. Lip didn't want Ian taking on too much, especially now that he's just had his first real stretch of time with his meds all stable. Lip figured he'd harass Ian about bettering his situation later, let him just get used to even having a situation first. That was plenty.

But this? Jesus, the school's practically begging to hold Ian's hand, walk him through getting a college education, bend over backwards to accommodate him, and then all but guarantee him a promotion when it's all done. Seriously…what the fuck is wrong with Ian? Lip had no idea when Ian mentioned the deal the other morning that it was anything like this.

Then Lip considers that conversation again, how Ian had so quickly agreed with him that it wasn't worth bothering with. It had felt like Ian was asking for permission to pass it up, for confirmation from Lip that this was something Ian couldn't handle. But now Lip wonders if Ian wasn't asking for exactly the opposite, if he hadn't been angling for a push or reassurance that he was capable. There had been that touch of tentative pride in his voice, that hint of old Ian who liked taking on challenges…and Lip had squashed it.

It makes him think of the one time Lip ever asked Frank for his advice on something. Lip had been invited to join the Science Club in seventh grade; they'd tried to recruit him—the other members and the faculty advisor—because they flat-out said that Lip was their only chance of going downstate that year. Lip had been kind of bragging when he told Frank about it, looking for a little validation in a year that had otherwise been full of acne and almost every other guy in middle school (including Lip's own younger brother) growing taller than him while Lip still lingered on looking like a sixth-grader. But validation was not something Frank was ever gonna give him. Instead, Frank had chastised Lip about being dumb enough to not know that every club was a racket, that the whole educational system was a scam, that Lip was yet another bright mind being indoctrinated into becoming a happy cog in the capitalist machine. So Lip had never joined the club, and he ended up getting caught shoplifting the day the rest of those kids all went to the state semi-finals. The cops had let Lip sit overnight in jail (most of it spent in the drunk tank) to "teach him a lesson." But the only lesson Lip stewed on that night was that Frank and all those assholes in the Science Club could go fuck themselves.

Lip checks the clock on his laptop. He knows from the couple times he's been late to class and passed Ian on the way that this is when Ian takes his lunch break. He's always sitting in the same spot, eating the same sorry-looking sandwich and staring into space.

Quietly, Lip packs up his things and slips out of the lecture hall. He traverses a couple of hallways and then finds Ian as expected, sitting on a bench in the corner of the atrium. He's got his cart of cleaning supplies parked beside him. Instead of just looking out the window as he eats, though, Ian's engrossed in a book. Lip pauses before approaching him.

Lip taught Ian to read. It was early, before Ian had even started school, though not as early as Lip had taught himself. Still, Lip did it, and Ian entered first grade, like Lip, as the only boy in his class who could already read. Later, Lip would credit this early intervention as the reason why Ian always did so well in English class; Lip had gifted him a leg up and his first big source of confidence. Unfortunately, this was both the first and last leg up Ian ever really got in school. Or life.

Lip tried to do the same with math, but Ian always had a hard time getting his head around it, and Lip didn't know how to walk his own brain back enough steps to explain it well. But the reading, at least that had worked.

Lip, of course, was the biggest reader in the house, but Ian had always been a close second. Carl never had the patience for a book and Fiona didn't have the attention span or time, which is probably why they both still write like third graders. Debbie was pretty decent on both the reading and writing counts, but, to Lip's annoyance, she mostly stuck to novels.

Lip had instructed all of his siblings at one point or another that if you read stories, it was just distraction. You might as well do less work and watch TV. But if you read non-fiction, real stuff, you couldn't help but learn about something. Unless it was a novel assigned for school, Lip exclusively read non-fiction, and Ian followed suit. He preferred history books, mostly, about wars and battles, or biographies of great men. Ian actually read a fair bit of this stuff, staying up late into the night sometimes until Lip or Carl complained about the lamp still being on.

So seeing Ian hunched over a book again brings back fond memories of those nights in their shared room. Lip desperately wants to feel the warmth of those times right now. He's smiling as he approaches his brother. It feels like the Ian that Lip used to know is finally within his view.

"Whatcha reading?" Lip asks.

Ian glances up and acknowledges Lip with a half smile. He flips the book up to display the cover.

"Stephen King, huh?" Lip remarks.

"It's not bad. Creepy."

"Yeah, I've heard. Why you wastin' your time on that crap?"

Ian shrugs. He sets down the book and picks up his sandwich. "It's my lunch break," he says around a mouthful of bread and peanut butter.

"You know, if you were taking a class, you could get a lot of your homework done on your lunch break. Wouldn't be like you'd have to put in a lot of extra time on it. One class would be nothin' for you."

"Mmm," Ian replies noncommittally.

"You given any thought to takin' a class or two? Like we talked about this summer?"

"Not really," Ian says, picking at his sandwich. He tears off a piece and eats it like that instead of just biting it off. It's like he wants an excuse to keep his eyes on the sandwich in his lap and not to have to look at Lip. "I got a lot goin' on," he says.

Lip starts to scoff at this but stops. Yeah, Ian hasn't got much going on at all—working his bullshit job, helping out the track coach two days a week, probably babysitting Mickey's kid—but maybe it seems like a lot to Ian. Or maybe Ian's just afraid to rock the boat. It's been remarkably smooth sailing these last couple months, and Lip can understand the desire not to mess with that. He's felt it himself. But this opportunity now? Lip can't just let this go. He can't sit back and let his brother, who was always fucking _brave_ if nothing else, be so scared that he passes on this chance.

"So, I looked up that award thing they wanna give you," Lip begins, "I didn't realize what a big deal it was. I thought it was some bullshit management trainee thing, take a couple Saturday seminars, whatever, but this—"

Ian cuts him off with a shake of the head, though. "Jesus, Lip, just leave it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean leave it," Ian says, "I don't want to talk about this. I don't want you looking up stuff and getting involved. Just leave it."

"Okay, sure, you don't want me telling you what to do," Lip agrees, dismissing the complaint, "But this is a big opportunity. Do you realize what they're trying to do for you?"

"Yes."

"Yeah, but, did you read the whole thing? About the—"

"I read it."

"Did you see the part about tailoring course selections to your interests? About giving you time off for exam prep and course projects? About considering you first for promotion? You'd have a fuckin' degree and a better job and, man, I read the fine print—the legal stuff? You don't even owe them anything for this. You can take that degree and go work any other job you can get with it. How do you turn that down? I mean, I know you're worried you'll get overwhelmed and fuck it all up, and believe me, I'm worried too, but I think this is a risk you gotta take. You're not gonna get a lot of other chances like this, man, let's be honest…"

Then Lip pauses, realizing that Ian isn't responding or appearing to even be listening. Ian's giving him the goddamn _chin_. There are few things that make Lip want to strangle Ian more than when he gives chin.

Lip glares at Ian as Ian glares into the distance, jaw set, chin jutted out. But carefully, carefully, Lip steps his temper back. Once the chin comes out, Ian can't be reasoned with, and Lip's only choices are either to rail at him fruitlessly or to re-strategize.

"Okay," Lip says, forcing as much lightness into his tone as possible, "Forget it."

Ian's eyes flick toward him suspiciously.

"I'm done talkin' about it," Lip lies.

Ian keeps his eyes on him a wary moment longer, then drops his armor and returns his attention to his sandwich.

Lip takes a seat on the bench beside him and asks, "You wanna hang out and get a drink or somethin' when you get off work tonight? Can call and text Mickey ahead of time, tell Fiona to get the phone tree goin' with the kids, issue a press statement on your whereabouts. Do it all legit this time."

"Can't," Ian says.

"Got somethin' else to do?"

"Yeah."

Lip waits for Ian to tell him what it is, but Ian just eats the last bite of his sandwich. Then he crumples up his lunch bag and stands up.

"Gotta get back to work," he says. He sets both the library book and the balled-up paper bag on his cart.

Lip glances at the wall clock behind them. There's easily still twenty minutes until his lunch break is over. Ian's trying to get away from him. That hurts more than Lip would've expected.

Ian's making a show of getting his cart in order, as if every item on it must be just so before he can start pushing it. Lip's pretty sure Ian's trying to bore Lip into leaving him alone. Is this how you start cutting someone out of your life?

Lip shoves his hands in his pockets and says, "Hey, that was fun the other night, though, wasn't it? We should do that again. There's always a party going on somewhere on campus any Friday or Saturday. You should come out more."

Ian starts pushing his cart and says, "Nah, I can't keep doing all that."

Lip walks along side him and asks, "What? The drinking?"

"Yeah."

"Cause of your meds? I thought you were okay to drink."

"No," Ian replies, keeping his eyes straight ahead. Lip wonders if Ian is ever going to stop walking like a wannabe soldier.

Then Ian explains, "I can drink. Just hits me quicker. But I shouldn't drink like that. I like feeling like that better than I like feeling like this. And…that's probably not good."

"Oh."

Lip processes this. It's a bit of a terrifying statement, and it's unsettling to hear Ian vocalize it so matter-of-factly. But Lip hides his discomfort and says, "That's actually pretty smart. I'm, uh, I'm glad you're aware of that."

Ian turns his head to look at him. "How could you not be," Ian asks, "growing up with Frank and Monica?"

Lip gives him a smile of commiseration. "Yeah," he agrees.

It's still a troublesome thought, though, that Ian recognizes that desire in himself. Lip briefly considers giving Ian a head's up that Monica's in town, but he decides against it. He doesn't want to see how Ian would react to this knowledge. And it's probably better off if Ian is just blissfully ignorant. Mickey's right about something: Ian doesn't need to be dealing with that shit right now.

After they've walked down the hall for a bit in measured silence, Ian stops pushing the cart and turns to Lip.

"I gotta get back to work," Ian says, "And you gotta get to your lab."

That catches Lip off-guard. "How did you know I have a lab at two?" he asks.

Ian sighs. "I'm here all day, all week long. I know your whole schedule."

"Oh," Lip says, dumbfounded.

"And you're gonna be late for your electronics lab if you don't go. You already walked out on half your statistics lecture. You can't do that shit."

Lip looks at Ian for a moment, standing there in his uniform with his stupid cart, and the divide between them has never felt greater. And yet Lip is reminded of something familiar he hasn't thought of in a while—Ian used to worship him. Ian used to follow Lip's exploits—in school, in the neighborhood—the way some kids followed stats on their favorite professional athletes. Ian never said much about it, but he always knew what was going on with Lip, always was ready and fully knowledgeable when Lip launched into some story or long-winded rant about whatever had happened to him that day. Ian knew all the players in Lip's life, knew when Lip had said something particularly witty or cutting in class…Ian was Lip's biggest fan. Lip had taken it for granted, that this was the way it was supposed to be and that this was the way it would always be.

Ian would've been proud of Lip had he joined the Science Club in seventh grade, probably would've ridden downstate with him on the bus, just to sit there in the audience and support him.

Lip took for granted that Ian loved him, just like Lip's taken it for granted that once Mickey came onto the scene, Ian stopped giving a shit at all about his brother. Maybe Lip needs to not be so quick to take anything with Ian for granted.

"Hey, man," Lip says to him now, "If this is something you think you might wanna do, you know I'll help you, right? You know I'll write your fuckin' papers for you if I have to. I can take your tests, do your homework even. Whatever we have to do to get you through, I can do it."

There's something in Ian's eyes when Lip says this, some flash of emotion Lip can't place, but then it's gone just as quick as it appeared. Ian's patronizing smile is back and he gives Lip a pat on the shoulder.

"Just get to class," Ian says.

He puts both hands on the cart and begins to push it past Lip. He takes a corner and disappears down the adjacent hallway. Lip remains in the main corridor, alone.

* * *

><p>Lip loses track of thinking about Ian for a few days, distracted with two exams and a paper and with reading different washer repair forums, still trying to figure that one out for Fiona. He completely forgets about his upcoming summit with Mickey until Amanda's scrolling through his planner app and asks about it.<p>

"Is Mickey your brother's boyfriend? The one with the—" she wiggles her knuckles at him.

"That's the one," Lip replies, retuning his eyes to the pdf manual for Fiona's washer, "Husband, actually."

"Right," Amanda murmurs then remarks, "I didn't know you guys hung out."

"Shit," Lip says, looking up again, "Is that tonight?"

"Six o'clock."

"Fuck."

"You got time," she says helpfully.

"Yeah, I just…fuck. That's the last thing I want to do tonight."

"You could cancel."

Lip sets the laptop down, thoroughly irritated. "I really can't," he says.

Amanda shrugs. "Go or don't go. This conversation is boring."

Lip glances at the clock. "We could have a quick one."

Amanda looks at the clock too then shakes her head. "That's not enough time for what I want."

"I can make it count," Lip says hopefully.

"No you can't," she replies. She switches from the planner app to a spreadsheet and says, "So, you need a 91 on this exam to keep in the A range."

"Pretty sure I got at least a 94," Lip says, tabling his disappointment that there will be no pre-summit lay to take his mind off things.

"You sure about that?"

"Yeah, there was one question I'm not sure about. It was worded strangely. The rest I aced, though."

"Nice job, cowboy. Looks like you're keeping on track."

"Sure you don't got time for a pity lay?"

"I don't ever have time for a pity lay. How's the essay coming?"

"Mostly finished. Gotta work in two more sources, then some bullshit conclusion."

Lip takes up his laptop again, minimizes the washer pdf and has another look over his essay. It's actually not a bad paper at all. And he'd much rather stay here and finish it up tonight than go see Mickey. Christ, he doesn't want to deal with that shit.

A message notification pings on Lip's phone.

"Washer's fixed," Amanda reads out loud to him, "From your sister."

"The fuck?" Lip mutters, taking the phone from her. Immediately, he texts back to Fiona:

_How? How much?_

There's a delay, then Fiona responds:

_Free! Ian had a friend from work look at it. Took 5 minutes!_

Lip's not sure why, but this turn of events makes him suddenly very irritated. He manages to text back:

_OK. Good._

But the message doesn't at all match how he's feeling. Lip doesn't understand it either. Why the hell is he so aggravated by this? One less thing for Lip to worry about, didn't cost them anything, Ian gets to be the hero of the day again…God, is that it? Or is it that Ian did what Lip couldn't do? It's not supposed to work like that.

"What's your problem?" Amanda asks, taking in Lip's fuming scowl.

"Everything's fucking annoying today."

Amanda sighs and climbs to her feet. "I'm going back to my place," she says, "I've got my own stuff to do."

Lip continues to scowl at his phone, paying little attention to Amanda, but as she reaches the door, he asks her, "Do you think I'm an asshole?"

"Of course."

"I'm serious."

"So am I. How is that even a question?"

Lip's scowl deepens as she heads out. Just as Amanda departs, Lip's phone buzzes with another text notification. It's from Mickey:

_We still doing this?_

Lip thumps his head against the cinder block wall and closes his eyes for a long minute. Then he reaches for his shoes.

* * *

><p>The pool hall Mickey chose to meet at is in Bronzeville, of all places. There's definitely no chance of running into Ian or anyone he knows here, Lip thinks as he walks briskly from the bus stop, but he can't help but wonder how Mickey even found it in the first place.<p>

Inside the hall, though, Lip spots Mickey chatting away with some dude at a pool table like he isn't the only white guy in the place save for Lip. Nobody is paying the slightest bit of attention to Mickey, though Lip gets a couple of skeptical looks as he takes a seat at the bar. Maybe that's just in his head, though.

He orders a scotch to wait out the rest of Mickey's game and does his best to look like he comes here all the time. Once he gets his drink, he turns around and sits back, watching Mickey play. He's not bad. He's definitely holding his own with the guy, and Lip makes a mental note to not agree if Mickey invites him to play a round. Lip's mediocre at billiards, and he sure as hell isn't about to let Mickey beat him.

Mickey ends up winning and accepting a fat wad of cash from the guy before he saunters over to the bar, looking smug as shit. He orders a shot and a beer and slides onto the stool next to Lip.

Mickey says calmly, "So, what's your problem with me, huh? The fuck's wrong with you?"

"That's it? That's your opening? Should get you a job with the UN."

Mickey makes a face. He does his shot, chases it with a big gulp of beer and then starts again with a heavy dollop of mockery.

"So, how's college?"

"Fine," Lip says, "How's the sex trade?"

"Pays the bills, man," Mickey shrugs and sips his beer. Then he asks, "You see Ian much up there?"

Lip shrugs right back, taking on the same insouciance, "We have lunch together sometimes."

Lip doesn't mention that "having lunch together" mainly consists of Lip walking past Ian on his lunch break. It's better to make it sound like Lip and Ian are having a grand old time up at the university without Mickey. In his head, Lip pictures himself and Ian laughing over something stupid Mickey did. He hopes Mickey's picturing the same thing.

A bit of the arrogance drops off of Mickey's face as he addresses his beer glass and says, "He had fun at that party the other night. Always likes that shit, though. Dancin' and messin' around, makin' pals with good-lookin' people and all that? You know how he is."

Lip doesn't know this at all (when has Ian ever been some social butterfly?), but Lip doesn't let this on. He is pleased, though, to note that Mickey only knows this fake Ian that he is outside of the Gallagher house. Mickey doesn't have the real Ian.

"I try to get 'em to go out some times 'cause I know he likes that," Mickey continues, "Don't know why he never wants to go no more."

"Maybe he doesn't want to go because you make a big fuckin' fuss when he does," Lip replies.

Mickey shakes his head with his lips pressed tight together, as if he's willing himself not to say something. Then he just says quietly, "Scared the shit out of me when he didn't come home, and I didn't know where he was."

"Yeah," Lip says, tilting the scotch around in his glass, "I know somethin' about what that feels like. Not knowing where Ian is or if he's okay. For months. And there's people who know where he is, and they don't even have the fuckin' decency to tell you..."

Lip doesn't look up to see Mickey's reaction to this statement. Lip doesn't care. He can still taste that same sick worry he'd felt the night he first realized Ian wasn't at any ROTC retreat, that slow burning panic that had set in when the MPs showed up, the horrific realization that something had gone very, very wrong. Mickey and Mandy had known where Ian was that entire time, and they'd never once said a word to Lip or Fiona or to any of them. You can't trust Milkoviches as far as you can throw them.

Before Mickey can say anything in response to this, a waitress approaches them. "You gonna order anything to eat, Mick?" she asks tiredly.

Mickey looks to Lip. "You like catfish?"

Lip shrugs. "It's all right."

"Got fuckin' great catfish here. Owner knows a guy's got his own farm," Mickey says to Lip. To the waitress he puts on a big smile and says, "Two catfish plates with fries."

"Blackened or fried?" she asks.

"Fried."

"Got it," she says and heads back to the kitchen.

"Not on the Ian Gallagher diet, huh?" Lip asks.

"Christ, no. I ain't Bugs Bunny."

"Figured he'd have you going for runs with him by this point," Lip says, "Matchin' track suits, makin' smoothies together…"

"Fuck, man," Mickey says, "He's lucky I don't strangle him when he starts doin' goddamn lunges at five in the mornin' when I'm tryin to sleep."

Lip smiles in commiseration, remembering all the mornings he'd spent with a pillow over his head while Ian grunted through his warm up or counted off push-ups under his breath. The shithead had even tried working jumping jacks into his routine for a few weeks until Carl threatened to Nancy Kerrigan Ian in his sleep if he didn't knock it off.

Mickey sips his beer and shakes his head, marveling. "That's some dedication, though," he says, "Was he always like that?"

Lip ponders this. Ian had always been an energetic kid and a natural athlete—he'd been able to out-run Lip and take him in a fight pretty much as far back as Lip could remember. But as for when the singular focus on becoming Captain America started, Lip has to rack his brain.

"Think it was when he did the President's Physical Fitness thing in sixth grade," he says, "Remember that bullshit?"

Mickey puts a hand to his forehead. "Fuckin' shuttle races and chin-ups," he mutters.

"Yeah."

"You fell off the chin-up bar in sixth grade," Mickey says, grinning now and pointing at Lip, "Broke your ass."

"My tailbone."

"Fuckin' hilarious."

Lip remembers it being humiliating and painful, but he doesn't say anything about this because, frankly, it's mortifying that Mickey still recalls the incident. Lip's gotten past most of the public embarrassments in his life by assuming that everybody else has forgotten them. Leave it to Mickey to remember this one. Lip can still see twelve-year-old Mickey Milkovich cackling at him with the rest of his sixth grade gym class, laughing like Pinocchio donkey boys.

"Anyway," Lip says, skillfully directing the conversation back to the topic of Ian, "when _he_ was in sixth grade, he won, like, six of those. Couple of different races, the chin-up one, bunch of stuff. Think it went to his head a little, and he got carried away. Pretty sure that's when it all started."

Mickey frowns over his beer, obviously contemplating something. Then he asks, "This around the time we were all plannin' to beat you up?"

"Huh?"

"In seventh grade when you were real small," Mickey says, "I remember it 'cause even I was taller than you. And I wasn't ever taller than nobody. But…man, you were just this little shrinky-dink shrimp with a big ole mouth. Like you couldn't stop yourself from sayin' shit to us. Such a smart ass."

"That sounds about right," Lip murmurs.

"Yeah, yeah," Mickey says, excited now as he puts the pieces from the two stories together, "This must've been the same time. Ian was telling me about this back when we worked at the Kash 'n Grab. How when he was eleven or twelve or whatever he heard that a bunch of us were talkin' 'bout kickin' your ass. Teachin' you a lesson, you know? Told me he started tryin' to get stronger so he could be your right hand man, or whatever."

Mickey laughs at the memory, "Didn't think you stood a chance by yourself. He wasn't wrong. I tell you that."

Lip sits flabbergasted, taking this in. He pictures Ian, still so scrawny up through most of high school.

"That's ridiculous," Lip says, "he was tiny then."

Mickey cocks his head. "He was bigger than you, wasn't he?"

"Well, yeah, but—"

"He did what he could, man."

Lip stares into his glass, knowing that there's no way this story isn't absolutely the truth. Somehow Mickey knows not only something about Ian's life that Lip never knew but something about Lip's life too. Lip feels unmoored by this revelation. He doesn't _want_ Mickey knowing this shit.

Mickey drains the last of his beer and remarks, "Lucky we never got around to doin' it. Probably would've broke both your asses."

They don't say much for a bit. Mickey gets another beer. Lip gets another scotch. This is better liquor than what Lip is used to drinking on his own or what Kev serves at The Alibi. It's supposedly the same brand that Kev serves, though, which makes Lip consider the idea that Kev is watering his shit down. Is this because Kev is cheap and watering everybody's liquor down (likely) or because Kev believes that Lip in particular needs to have his scotch watered down (an odd possibility)? Does he think Lip's a lightweight? That's an insulting thought.

Just as Lip's determining to confront Kev about his alleged paternalistic liquor-weakening, Mickey speaks up.

"When you see Ian up there, you ever talk to him about it?"

"About what?"

"You know. College."

"Like, the school itself? The university?"

Mickey rolls his eyes. "No, Einstein. About _Ian_ goin' to college. Takin' some classes."

"Oh." Lip sits back and looks at Mickey straight on for the first time and says, "That somethin' you think he should do?"

"He's smart enough, ain't he? Did all right when he was in school."

"Sucked at math," Lip says.

"Eh," Mickey dismisses this, "I could help him with that."

Lip gives an involuntary laugh at the idea.

"What?" Mickey asks, "You don't think it's a good idea? I think he could do it."

Lip looks at Mickey and recognizes actual concern for Ian, that they're both on the same page for once in regards to him. Lip softens a little.

"No," Lip says earnestly, "I think it's a good idea. I think he'd be stupid not to do it."

The waitress returns with their catfish baskets and lays them out in front of them. They're interrupted for a few minutes, getting situated.

Then Mickey says, "Just seems like a waste. He ain't stupid. He ain't lazy. He ain't even got a criminal record. The fuck shouldn't he try and get some place better than this?"

Mickey shoves a big chunk of fried catfish in his mouth and says to himself, "Always thought he'd get outta here."

_Then why the hell were you in such a hurry to make him permanently tied to something here?_ Lip thinks as he watches Mickey chewing with his mouth open, clutching his beer with grubby hands and dirty fingernails, looking like everything Lip ever wanted to drag all his brothers and sisters far, far away from.

"If you talked to him," Mickey says with practiced nonchalance, giving it away that this is something he'd planned in advance to say, "He might actually listen. He don't listen to me when I bring it up. But, you…he listens to what you tell him."

"Yeah," Lip scoffs, "Ian hasn't given two craps about anything I've had to say since he was fifteen."

"Think you'd be surprised about that," Mickey remarks.

"Right," Lip says, dragging a fry through his ketchup, "Really took it to heart when I tried talkin' to him about that award. 'Mind your own business' and 'stay out of it' are real promisin' to hear."

"What award you talkin' about?"

Lip shoves the fry in his mouth and says, "The one at work. Where they wanna help him get a degree and promote him."

Mickey is just sitting there with his jaw dropped then he says in disbelief, "Fuckhead never said a word to me."

Lip is about to say 'Yeah, well, that's Ian,' but he stops himself. He finally has something on Ian that Mickey doesn't know. Lip can't help but pull this weapon from its sheath and admire it a bit, give Mickey a little poke with it.

"He told _me_," Lip says instead, feigning surprise, "Wonder why he didn't say anything to you. It's a pretty big deal."

Mickey's frown continues to deepen and Lip recognizes that dismay. It hurts to find out Ian keeps things from you, that Ian doesn't trust you enough to share big things about his life. And it hurts to think he's chosen someone else to confide in.

Lip twists the knife just a tiny bit more, "Keepin' secrets from your husband, that can't be good."

Mickey is silent, and Lip tears into his catfish, pretending not to notice Mickey's uneasiness. When the bartender comes by, Lip accepts a third scotch though Mickey waves off the offer of another beer.

It feels a little like the scotch doing the talking when Lip says, "What's Ian even getting out of this whole arrangement if he can't tell you shit? Or go out and have the kind of fun he wants to? Or even think about having a fuckin' goal again and gettin' outta this shithole? You must be offerin' up the best cock in Chicago if that's all that's keepin' him here. Pretty sure he could get it elsewhere—he's not bad-lookin', right?"

Mickey eyes Lip, then carefully composes himself, restoring his usual smarmy expression.

"All right, Gallagher," Mickey says, "Let's get this over with. Do what we came for."

"Okay," Lip agrees, downing half his glass in one ridiculously cocky gulp that he immediately regrets.

"We're here to get this all out on the table, right?" Mickey says and folds his arms across his chest, "So, tell me. Why you got it in for me?"

Lip sniffs. "You really wanna do this?"

Mickey replies only with his eyebrows.

"All right," Lip says, "Aside from the fact that you beat the shit out of me on multiple occasions growing up—"

"Sure I wasn't the only one."

"Aside from that, I think you're the worst thing that ever happened to Ian."

Mickey rolls his eyes. "You don't know shit."

"I know that you're a Milkovich. And I know that you're scum." Lip sets down his glass and continues, "I know that everything you do is illegal and dangerous as hell for Ian to get wrapped up in. I know that I go to bed every night wonderin' if tonight's gonna be the night I get the call that he's been hauled off to Cook County 'cause of somethin' you did. And I know when that happens, it's gonna be really fuckin' bad for him."

Mickey is glaring ahead toward the marbled mirror behind the bar. He doesn't look at Lip as he asks, "Why you goin' on like you give a crap? This an ego thing with you? Pretendin' like you're the big, bad brother lookin' out for him? Where the fuck were you this winter?"

Liam in his hospital bed. Fiona barefoot and curled up and crying at the gas station. Ian motionless in the bed in that house. Debbie crying on Lip's shoulder in the Gallagher's kitchen. Carl ripping Ian's camouflage sleeping bag to shreds with the knife Ian had given him. Ian not moving when Lip tried to talk to him, looking more and more like Monica by the second. Fiona whisper-arguing with Mickey about the clinic. All those whores just standing around staring like it was a school pageant. Mandy acting like putting her hand on Lip's shoulder was gonna make anything remotely better at all…

Lip can't speak he is so rattled. He doesn't like thinking about this past winter because he still doesn't know how the fuck he barreled through it. It was the one time in his life his came closest to giving up. It was the one time in his life he ever understood how a person could decide that stepping onto the el tracks was a better option than…anything else.

Lip takes a sip of his whiskey to steady his unease and tighten the reins a bit on his anger.

"I fucked up," Lip says, surprised to hear himself say it, "For once in Ian's life I wasn't there for him, okay? I fucked it up."

Mickey gives a humorless laugh. "For once? For once, asshole? Where the fuck were you when all those old guys were molestin' his underage ass? Or was that when you were tryin' to take West Point from him? Just to show off that ya could? Or when you were tryin' to go off to college and pretend you didn't have a family, didn't have anyone who needed lookin' out for?"

Lip furrows his brow, uncertain if it's Mickey's words or the whiskey or all the anxiety this has unleashed in him, but he's very confused. Take West Point from Ian? When the hell did Lip ever try to do anything but help Ian get there? And who are "all those old guys"?

"You mean Kash and Lishman?" Lip asks without even really thinking about it. He's just desperately trying to get the logic in order here.

Mickey snorts like Lip is joking and asks, "Gonna let that happen to Debbie next? Or she don't count neither? Halvsies don't count? Gonna just cart her up to the North Shore and try and pawn her off on that asshole too?"

"What are you talkin' about?"

"I'm talkin' about you lettin' him rot all those weeks he was sick then turnin' around and actin' like I'm the one who's no good for him. Where the fuck were you when I was talkin' him into walkin' to the fuckin' bathroom? Where the fuck were you when Iggy and I were carryin' his skinny ass down to the clinic? Where the fuck have you ever been for him?"

Mickey shakes his head and jabs a finger at Lip as he repeats, "You don't know shit."

And suddenly Lip's anger has made everything in his brain quite clear again. He sits up straighter and says to Mickey, "I know that you're the reason that he ran away. God knows what happened to him there. I know that's on you."

Mickey appears caught off guard by this as he says, "It wasn't like—Man…you don't know shit. You don't—you don't know fucking anything about it."

"Oh, Ian told me," Lip says lightly, "About your daddy walkin' in on you two. How you had to go knock up that Russian hooker because you were too chickenshit to let him think you were still gay."

Mickey doesn't seem to be breathing. He is frozen and waxy-looking. It seems like a struggle for him to speak when he finally manages to say, "Ian didn't tell you that."

"Ian told me everything," Lip assures him, "He told me how you were a coward."

"You don't know…" Mickey whispers.

"Oh, I don't know," Lip says mockingly, steamrolling right over Mickey's creepy stillness, "I know that you're no good for my brother, but for some reason he thinks you're all he's got and you're the best he's gonna do. I know that he wasn't broken before he hooked up with you. I know I've been watching him fall apart ever since."

Lip drains the last of his whiskey, glad that Mickey still hasn't found any voice to argue with. It gives Lip a second to gather up full steam.

Lip sets the glass down with a clink and says, "I know that you took my brother away from me. And you fucked him. And you broke him. And you can do everything in the world to try and make up for that, try and look like you're lookin' out for him, takin' care of him, whatever. You can do everything, but it's never gonna fix what you did. And I'm not forgiving you for that."

Mickey is staring at Lip, eyes wide, and Lip could swear Mickey's lips are trembling, like he's about to tear up, or something.

"I didn't break him," Mickey manages to say.

Lip takes his eyes away from Mickey's stupid face and mutters, "You break him, you buy him."

Then Mickey sniffs with false amusement. "Oh, I broke him, huh? I did that, huh?"

"Well, who else did?" Lip replies.

Mickey leans in, like he's about to share a secret or cut a deal with Lip and whispers, "How many times you let Frank go after him, huh? Yeah, Carl told me 'bout that. Kind of a brother are you, lettin' Frank knock his head around like that? You think that didn't do nothin'? I read up on this shit. That stuff's all responsible for settin' this shit off. It all adds up. All the balls you dropped before I ever came along."

Lip stares down into his empty glass, seeing in his mind's eye all the bloody lips, the broken noses, the black eyes, the dislocated little shoulders all covered with freckles. Ian was the punching bag; they all knew that. They also all knew that there was nothing Lip could do about it. And they also all further knew that Lip failed Ian every fucking time.

"How 'bout the time with the bat?" Mickey whispers, "Ian sure remembers that."

And there it is. Lip can still see him, all of seven years old, pleading with him, _"Just do it. It doesn't matter if you hit me. You're the smart one. Just do it."_ Frank had been on something weird all week that made him sadistic and scary in a way they'd never seen. He was withholding the grocery money, insisting that 'Clayton' needed to learn a lesson first and that Lip had to learn not to be so soft. They'd been eating ketchup and mustard for two days, and Frank had money for them right there. All Lip had to do was swing. Fiona was with the kids at the clinic for Carl's 18 months shots. Monica hadn't been up in days. No one would ever know. _"Just do it, Lip. I don't care."_ So Lip had swung, half-heartedly, barely tapped his brother. But Frank had insisted, _"Swing like you mean it. Can't learn anything from that."_ Lip swung the bat like he meant it. Ian went down like a dropped marionette.

"Why didn't you use the bat on Frank?" Mickey asks in that same conspiratorial whisper, "Not so smart after all, huh?"

But Lip did use the bat on Frank. Maybe Ian doesn't remember that part—how could he? Lip used the bat on Frank until he begged for mercy. Or maybe Lip just made that part up.

"You think you're such a good brother," Mickey chides.

Lip smiles cruelly and shakes his head. The words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself:

"At least I didn't let my dad fuck my sister."

Lip is off his stool and on his back quicker than he can realize what's happening. Mickey gets in several (Three? Four? Fifty?) dead-on punches, causing the lights to fade in and out, before the both of them get tossed out of the bar. Blood is pouring from Lip's mouth as he stumbles onto the sidewalk and lands on one knee and topples over.

"You're a piece of shit, Gallagher!" Mickey is hollering as he kicks Lip in the ribs, "Fuckin' piece of no good fuckin' shit!"

Lip just lies there on the sidewalk until Mickey backs off, muttering something to himself, and the pain starts to really register. But then Mickey's hauling Lip up by the collar and putting his face right up to his.

"This never happened, ya hear me?" Mickey says, "You don't say a goddamned word about any of this to Ian."

Lip grins, blood spilling over his teeth all warm and metallic, and he chokes out, "Swing like you mean it."

Mickey continues holding him, and Lip watches as Mickey's face shifts from anger into gradual disgust.

"Ian ain't the crazy one," Mickey tells him and drops him to the ground.

* * *

><p>It's far too early in the morning when Kuz lets himself into the dorm room. Lip can tell by the sound of his careful steps and the way he presses the door shut quietly that he's trying not to wake Lip up.<p>

This is all spoiled when he steps between their beds and cries out in disgust, "What the hell's all over the carpet?"

Kuz switches on the overhead light as Lip rolls over painfully.

It takes a second before Kuz can draw his eyes from the puddle of blood on the carpet up to the horror that is Lip's face.

"Holy crap," Kuz says, "Are you all right?"

"I'm gonna need ya to talk notes for me in Stats today."

Kuz continues to stare at him but manages to nod his head slowly.

Lip starts to pulls the covers back up then he pauses and asks, "Can you do somethin' else for me too?"

"Yeah," Kuz says, "Sure. What?"

"Next time I say I'm going home for a bit, remind me about this."

Kuz nods dumbly, then takes a roll of paper towels off his desk and starts blotting up the blood.

Lip knows he should help, but he feels like he's got jackhammered concrete where his brain should be. He oozes back under the covers and loses himself to blessed darkness.


	4. Of Golden Geese and Golden Eggs

**Chapter Four: Of Golden Geese and Golden Eggs**

Lip lays low for a few days and tries to just keep focused on all the projects he has due with midterms coming up, despite feeling a little sorry for himself. Nobody inquires about his injuries. Maybe they just expect that shit to happen to the work-study guy from the shitty neighborhood. But even his two friends here don't bother. Amanda just laughs when she sees his healing face and doesn't ask for any details. Kuz doesn't push it either. Lip doesn't care; it's just another reminder that nobody really gives a shit, and he's only got himself to rely on. It's good to reestablish that fact every once in a while, helps him keep things in a realistic perspective.

He doesn't hear from anybody back home until he gets a text several days later from Fiona:

_How'd the playdate go?_

Lip doesn't bother to respond. Fiona must get distracted by other things because she doesn't send anything again until she texts the next morning asking if he can possibly spot her $40 for the gas bill. Lip's actually got the forty bucks for once, but for some reason, he can't help but be petty. He texts back:

_Why don't you ask Ian?_

He doesn't hear back from her. That ticks him off a little, and he determines not to think about his family for the next week at _least_. Fuck 'em. This lasts exactly two hours before he's on his way out of his Speech class and happens upon Ian.

It's not Ian's lunch hour, but he's obviously not working. He's sitting on a bench with a thermos and that stupid Stephen King book again. He looks concerned as he spots Lip.

"What the hell happened to you?" Ian asks as Lip approaches, giving Ian a better look at the damage.

Lip shrugs. "Waved a red flag in front of the wrong bull."

Ian appears impressed as he inspects Lip's injuries. "Shoulda called me if you were in trouble with someone," Ian says, "I woulda backed you up."

Lip pictures that for a moment, he and Ian taking on Mickey just like they never got to back in high school, and it certainly gives him a bit of pleasure. But then the guilt creeps in because that's not what Ian's picturing at all.

Eager to change the subject, Lip asks, "You run out of things to clean, or what? Need me to go scuff some floors?"

"Union-mandated break," Ian replies, "Get 'em every two hours."

"Sweet."

"I'm not complaining."

Lip expects Ian to return his attention to his book but instead Ian pauses a moment, as if considering something then asks, "You know anything about tiling?"

"What, like puttin' down floor tiles?"

"Wall tiles."

Lip knows nothing about wall tiles, but he says, "A little."

"Wanna help me tile a wall tonight?"

"That in your contract?"

"Not here," Ian says, "At home."

"What did Carl do now?" Lip asks, already envisioning some attempt to blow something up in the bathtub gone wrong.

"No," Ian clarifies, "At _my_ home."

"Oh." Lip ignores the nagging heart prick at the fact that Ian would refer to the Milkovich house as his _home_. But Lip can't help but be a little stunned that Ian appears to be inviting him over there, let alone inviting him to do anything at all. He can't recall the last time Ian made any overture at all.

"Mickey gonna be there?" Lip asks, his bruises aching at the thought.

"Nope. Just me and Yevgeny."

It takes Lip a second to remember that Yevgeny is not one of the Milkovich brothers. Hiding his relief at this, he says, "He not big enough to help you out with house maintenance yet?"

"Not quite."

"What a baby."

That stupid joke actually gets Ian to crack a smile. Lip feels a surge of triumph.

"Sure, I'll give you a hand," Lip says, "What time?"

"Seven?"

"Sounds good. I'll bring the beer."

Ian seems pleased but also uncomfortable, like he's suddenly gotten nervous and is trying to cover it up. He glances at his watch and rises.

"Gotta clock back in," he says. He tightens the cap on his thermos then lays it beside his book on the top of his cart. "See you tonight, then."

"Sure."

Lip has to stop himself from telling Ian 'thank you' as he walks away because that would be idiotic and awkward. Still, Lip feels a strange giddiness as he continues on and meets up with Amanda on their way to the class they both take together. She picks up on this change in his demeanor immediately.

"What are you so happy about?" Amanda asks.

"I'm happy?"

"You're all smiley. It's a little creepy."

"Ian asked me to hang out," Lip explains, feeling self-conscious and stupid as he says this.

"What? You relieved that he doesn't totally hate your guts?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

Amanda actually gives him a rare smile at this. As they pass by the coffee cart and the bookstore, she asks, "When does he want to hang out?"

"Tonight."

"What about study group?"

Lip shrugs. "I can skip a night."

She frowns and nudges her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. "Can you? Aren't you on the border of a C?"

Lip stops in his tracks, annoyed because she's right and this has spoiled the upturn in his mood. He really _can't_ afford to miss the study session tonight. And yet he's already certain there's no way he's not skipping out on it.

"You need to cool it with the micromanagin', okay?" he says, "I'm a big boy. I'll figure my own shit out."

He half-expects this start a fight and, in a way, he's gunning for it, but Amanda just gives him a thoroughly unimpressed look.

"What?" he demands, "Why're you lookin' at me like that?"

"I just don't understand why you're always so cute while making poor choices."

Amanda takes a step closer, reaches out, and discretely fondles Lip's dick through his pants, completely ignoring all the students walking around them. Lip forgets about the other students too for a second. Oh, Christ.

"Mystery of the universe," she murmurs, abandoning his crotch and resuming her normal path to class.

After a brief moment of confusion and lingering pleasure, Lip regains his senses and hustles to follow her.

* * *

><p>Lip spends far too long at Osco picking out what beer to bring that night. In a way, it feels a little like a date. He really wants to please Ian, not make him regret reaching out like this, but Lip also doesn't want to make it weird. It definitely feels a little weird, though.<p>

Ian used to prefer Old Style when they had the chance to choose, but Lip is leery about bringing such a cheap beer. It doesn't seem terribly generous, and he imagines Ian and Mickey have a shit ton of it in their fridge already. It'd be nice to bring something a little better, something Ian probably wouldn't buy for himself. But each more expensive beer Lip considers just seems douchier than the last. He doesn't want to open himself up to any 'college boy' ribbing, even though he's tempted by the Daisy Cutter, Fat Tire, and Goose Island specialty brews. He's had them with friends from school; they're really fucking good, make Old Style taste like the piss it is. But, he decides, they're too douchey by half. So he grabs a six-pack of Miller High Life instead, just to mix it up a little without getting too pretentious.

At the last minute, Lip darts into the Popeye's across from the el stop and picks up a box of chicken and biscuits, always Ian's favorite. Lip gets onto the train with the beer and the chicken feeling pretty secure in the knowledge that his Brother of the Year award notification should be arriving in the mail any day now.

When he gets to Zemansky, Lip knocks and waits and tries not to think about Mandy. When he tries not to think about Mandy, though, he thinks about seeing Ian sick here during the winter. Or coming here and trying their damnedest to keep Ian from sinking that low again this summer. Or even sneaking into the house with Ian what seems like a lifetime ago and getting caught by that fuckhead Terry Milkovich. When he tries to think about anything else, all Lip can find are awful memories. He hates this fucking house.

He knocks again harder this time and sets down the beer because it's getting annoying to hold and apparently no one's ever gonna answer.

Lip is just about to pound on the door again when Ian throws it open, looking distracted. "Sorry," he says, and Lip can hear the baby wailing from one of the bedrooms.

"It's okay," Lip says, stepping inside. He reclaims the six pack then turns to hold up the Popeyes box for Ian's approval, but Ian's already disappeared into the back of the house.

"Gimme a minute," Ian calls over his shoulder, "Sorry."

"It's okay," Lip says again even though Ian probably can't hear him. Lip pulls the door closed and stands there for a moment in the vestibule. Then, uncertain what else to do, he takes the beer and chicken into the kitchen.

He can hear Ian in one of the back bedrooms, talking nonsense to the baby as he changes him, and it sounds like it might still be a few minutes, so Lip opens a bottle of beer and has a look around. The whole house always feels like it's listing to one side, even when you're standing perfectly straight and sober. It still feels like that, but the place does seem cleaner and more organized than he remembers. It's still a shithole, but maybe having all those whores around has brought a woman's touch, or something.

Ian emerges from the hall with Mickey's kid on his hip and bypasses Lip, plopping the baby into the high chair.

"Want something to eat?" Ian asks as he washes his hands in the sink.

Lip's about to reply when he realizes from the tone of Ian's voice that he was talking to the baby.

"Hey, I brought Popeye's," Lip says as Ian takes a jar of applesauce from the fridge.

"Oh," Ian says, "Cool."

Lip sits uselessly at the table while Ian feeds the baby. Lip makes blowfish faces over Ian's shoulder, but the baby only has eyes for Ian. Or Ian's applesauce, anyway. After a bit of this, Lip fetches one of the beers for Ian and brings the chicken over from where he'd left it on the counter.

Ian finally turns to Lip while sipping his beer. "That guy really did a number on your face," Ian says, "You want me to sic Mickey on him? He'd make him look worse."

The baby starts squawking, brining Ian's attention back to him.

Thankfully, this gives Lip a second to maneuver himself out of this awkward conversation. He opens the Popeye's box and takes out a piece for himself.

"Have some chicken," he tells Ian.

Ian nods but remains distracted by the baby for a bit longer. Eventually, it seems like the baby's reached max capacity on applesauce. After Ian's wiped the both of them off with a damp dishcloth, he gives the kid a plastic cup to bang on the tray and helps himself to a biscuit. The baby squeals and reaches out for the biscuit. Ian appeases him, tearing off a piece and putting it on the tray. The baby puts it in his mouth experimentally, then spits it back out. Then he amuses himself smashing it around the tray.

"That's good shit, Yev," Ian says to the kid, reminding Lip of his name, "Shouldn't waste a Popeye's biscuit. That's like gold."

Lip smiles at this and pushes the box toward Ian encouragingly. Ian consents to eating a drumstick, but when he finishes that he tosses out the bones and goes to wash his hands again.

"That's all you're gonna eat?" Lip asks.

"I already had dinner," Ian says, "Mickey'll eat the rest when he comes home."

"Yeah, but I brought it for you. Will you at least eat it later?"

"Sure," Ian replies, taking up his beer, but it's clear to both of them he's lying.

"What the fuck, man," Lip says, uncertain why he's getting so upset about this, "This used to be your favorite."

"Sorry," Ian says, busying himself again with Yevgeny, "I just need to be really careful. I've put on six pounds already since I started this new medication."

"Dude, you probably needed it," Lip tells him, feeling dismayed. After the first round of medications, all those ones that ended up being worthless, Ian lost a lot of muscle, and that didn't leave him with much else. He'd looked really bad there for a while. He's been looking steadily better since, though he still wears a ghost of that time, to Lip's eyes.

"Yeah, well, I don't need anymore," Ian says, lifting Yevgeny from the highchair, "Nobody wants to see that."

"Who the fuck's lookin?" Lip asks, but Ian is conveniently distracted with Yevgeny and doesn't answer.

Lip hates it when Ian says shit like this. Over the past year, he's made so many offhand comments about needing to look better, not looking good enough. It seems different than the way Ian used to talk about building up his physical capabilities. Lip can't remember him ever having been so vain. Lip had thought for a while it must be a gay thing, this need of Ian's to look like an H & M mannequin at all times, but Lip's met more gay guys since he's been at college and they're not all like that, and Mickey certainly doesn't seem to be like that. Now Lip wonders if it isn't just a weird Ian thing. But it worries Lip.

All his life, Ian was a beanpole of a kid, all elbows and knees and pipe cleaner limbs. It was yet another thing that made him seem especially vulnerable. Monica had been the one who started all the fussing that Ian was too skinny when he was little, and Fiona had carried on the tradition of worrying even though they all knew Fiona was probably too thin herself; Fiona was always the last to eat. But even when Ian proved himself tough from grade school on, he'd still had a tendency to look like an athletic little skeleton. Lip couldn't ever quite shake the assumption that Ian required extra padding from life and that sturdier Lip had a duty to act as Ian's bubble wrap.

That last year at home, though, sixteen into seventeen, Ian seemed to mature overnight into someone substantial. He grew taller, broad in the shoulders, his muscles solidly stacked. Standing beside him only underscored Lip's own stalled transition, crapped out at "sturdy shrimp" just like fucking Frank. It would've been absurd to worry about Ian then. Anyone could look at him and see he could take care of himself. It was a relief.

But when Ian came back, that bit of reassuring bulk had been whittled away. Lip had blamed it in retrospect on the mania, Ian's body furiously burning through every last drop of fuel he had. Once the mania passed, when Ian was supposedly healthy again, Lip thought Ian would transform back to that action hero, that guy nobody was gonna mess with. Instead he's seemed determined to linger on in this weird fashion model body.

"Just…just don't let that be a reason you stop taking your meds," Lip says, trying to put a logical worry to the uneasiness this whole thing brings up in him.

Ian looks offended. "I wouldn't do that," he says, "I'm just saying I have to be careful. Work harder."

Lip sips his beer and makes himself keep quiet. He doesn't know how many times in his life Ian's solution to a problem was that he just had to work harder. Sometimes Lip can't help but want to tell him to just chill the fuck out. Not everything is made better by charging at it 50 miles per hour.

"So, tell me about this wall," Lip says.

Ian seems grateful for the change in subject. He shifts Yevgeny on his hip and points toward a big box and a sawhorse in the corner of the kitchen.

"There's a wet saw," he says, "Borrowed it from a guy at work. Guess we can use that to cut any end pieces we need to."

"Okay," Lip says, "Maybe keep the little guy out of the kitchen, then, huh?"

Ian gives him a look and Lip smiles back at him.

Ian takes up his beer and indicates for Lip to follow him down the hall, saying, "I'll show you what we're doing."

Lip follows Ian down into the tiny bathroom. There are tools and buckets piled up everywhere, so much so that it's difficult for the two of them to even stand.

The front wall of the shower is different from the other two walls as Ian shows him. There are no tiles on this wall, for one thing. It's also very obviously been recently sheetrocked.

"What happened?" Lip asks.

"Plumbing leak," Ian explains, "Had to tear it all out to fix it. Iggy's got a friend who does drywall; at least we got that part covered. But we've just been keeping an old shower curtain taped up over it since. Keeps falling down. Really annoying."

Ian steps back from the shower to point Lip toward a box of 4" x4 " white tiles behind the toilet. Yevgeny follows his lead and points too.

"Svetlana found these in that house on the corner—the one they started flipping then just left?"

Lip nods. He knows the house. It had been the joke of the neighborhood, some assholes from LaGrange thinking they were gonna rehab that shithole then flip it and make any money at all. All the copper had been stolen twice before they finally gave up and walked away on it.

"So, anyway," Ian says, "Mickey won't be home until late. Thought I'd surprise him. Got the tools and stuff from a guy at work, got some mortar, some grout. Watched some Youtube videos. Doesn't seem that hard, right?"

Lip looks over the mess, notes the shattered medicine cabinet mirror, the overflowing garbage can, the hole somebody's almost punched through the back of the door. This place is a miserable, depressing shithole.

"Sure," Lip nods, "Let's do it."

Ian keeps Yevgeny in a pack 'n play in the bedroom while they're working. It's an imperfect solution, though, because every time he and Lip get the process going, Ian has to keep leaving to attend to Yevgeny's cries and give him new items to keep him amused.

It's slow-going, but it's not bad. Lip's pretty sure he watched the same Youtube tutorials when he was giving himself a crash course in tiling this afternoon that Ian did, so they're actually both on the same page for a lot of it. They're also both stumped by the same issues. But, after several starts and stops, they manage to start getting the first row of tiles adhered to the wall, even making a couple of tricky cuts.

It takes almost two hours to get that point, but Lip doesn't mind. He's on his fourth High Life, singing along to the radio and enjoying himself, working side by side with Ian like old times. It's all very pleasant until they sit back to admire their first completed row and notice that it looks downright wonky.

"Why's it doing that?" Ian asks, running a finger along the warped line of tile, "The wall must be crooked."

"This whole fuckin' house is crooked, man," Lip says, "What'd you expect?"

Ian laughs at this. Then he sits back on his heels in hopelessness and mutters, "Shit."

Lip looks over the row of crooked but level tiles and thinks about it. "Maybe we can fix this," he says, "You got a compass?"

"Sure," Ian says and Lip recognizes a look that he hasn't seen in a long time, a look of admiration and complete trust that Lip always knows how to fix everything. As Ian steps past him out of the room, Lip feels happier than he has in ages.

Ian returns a moment later and hands him a small, round, Army-issued compass. Lip stares at it for a moment then smirks.

"I meant like a math compass. What the fuck did ya expect me to do with _this_?"

Ian looks perturbed, but then he laughs again and says, "Figured I don't know how your brain works."

"I don't know how your brain works either, sometimes, swear to god," Lip replies. He sips his beer and says, "Well, now I know which way is North."

He passes the compass back to his brother, remarking, "Your survivalist training comes in handy once again."

Ian tucks the compass into his pocket and sits there looking pensive for a moment. Then he asks, "Is a compass the one with the pointy thing, or is it the plastic one?"

"That's a protractor," Lip replies, "Compass is the one with the pointy thing. For drawing circles and figuring angles."

"I think we actually have one."

Lip watches Ian disappear again then return swiftly with an honest to god compass.

"It was in the dart board," Ian explains as he hands it over.

"Sounds about right," Lip replies.

Yevgeny starts wailing and Ian leaves the bathroom once more to attend to him. While he's gone, Lip takes some measurements on the wall and on the tiles then he starts using the compass to draw some cut lines on the backs of the tiles. He's just about finished by the time Ian returns.

"Let me at that tile saw," Lip says, "I'm gonna make some angled cuts. Think it'll even things out a bit."

Ian looks hesitant. He inspects one of the tiles that Lip's made a pencil mark on and asks, "This the cut line?"

"Yeah."

"Let me do it. You've had too much to drink."

This irritates Lip. "So why assume I got the cut lines right, then?" he asks, "Might as well just forget the whole thing if you think a couple of beers interferes with my abilities."

"I trust you to do math," Ian says, "I don't trust you to use power tools. Can't really injure anybody with math."

"Oppenheimer injured a lot of people with math," Lip remarks. It's a stupid thing to say, but he can't help it.

"Well, he never sliced off his finger with it, though, did he?"

Lip can't really argue with that. He watches Ian gather up all the tiles that Lip has marked.

"Keep an eye on the baby," Ian says as he carries the tiles out to the kitchen.

Lip takes his beer and wanders into the bedroom where Yevgeny's pack 'n play is set up. The baby is standing up at the side, gnawing on the frame. He looks up at Lip with devious blue eyes. The kid's a dead ringer for Mickey, but somehow on a nine-month-old it's cute.

"How's it goin'?" Lip asks, sipping his beer. He could swear Yevgeny shrugs in response.

As the air compressor kicks in and the saw starts whirring in the kitchen, Yevgeny's placid expression melts into distress. He starts screaming.

Lip sets his beer on the dresser and scoops him up.

"Shhh, shhh," he says, holding the baby close to soothe him while simultaneously bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, "It's all right, buddy."

Yevgeny continues screeching and Lip starts walking him around the room. This seems to help a little.

As Lip bounce-walks and whispers to the baby, he inspects the room. There's a weird mixture of things that must be Mickey's and things Lip recognizes as belonging to Ian. The latter look out of place here, and Lip has an irrational desire to steal them all back and return them to their old bedroom.

He hoists Yevgeny up a bit higher and meanders around the unmade bed. He gazes disinterestedly at the crap on the nightstand—loose change, two or three Bic lighters, some receipts with notes scrawled on them, a bottle of antacid tablets—and one item catches his eye. Carefully, Lip uses two fingers to slide it out from under the coins and lighters.

It's a strip of pictures from one of those hipster photo booths. Lip recognizes the same brand name on it from one Amanda has of her and Lip from some wedding she dragged him to this summer. From the looks of it, Ian and Mickey also attended somebody's wedding this past June (there's a heart graphic printed at the top with 'Felix + Tate' and the date). Lip can't stop staring at the four sequential images. Aside from the first one where they're both making pseudo-serious grimaces, they look really happy in the pictures. Ian's fucking beaming. In the last photo, Mickey's caught mid-blink looking straight-on at the camera (he looks drunk), but Ian's looking at him like Mickey's…well, like Mickey's the greatest thing that ever could've happened to him.

Feeling like he's intruded on something very intimate, Lip drops the photo strip back on the table and walks Yevgeny back around the bed. The tile saw has ceased, but the kid's still squawking.

Ian pads into the room, wiping his dusty palms on his pants and takes the baby from Lip. Yevgeny stops fussing almost immediately in Ian's arms.

"Aw," Ian says to Yevgeny, "Was he pinching you? Was the ugly man pinching you?"

Lip rolls his eyes. "I'm gonna go have a smoke, all right? Then we'll get back to the tiles?"

Ian nods. As Lip leaves the room, Ian says to Yevgeny, "Was he telling bad jokes? They're never funny, are they?"

Yevgeny babbles back at Ian, probably talking shit about Lip.

Out on the front stoop, Lip lights up and takes a seat. He smokes and shivers a little, even though it's pretty mild still for November. He thinks about those photos. It shouldn't feel so strange to have seen them. He knows Ian has his own life, knows he goes places Lip's never been to, hangs out with folks (who the hell are Felix and Tate?) Lip's never met. But it's still disarming to see such blatant evidence of this. There had been moments tonight when Lip was able to forget that any time or any problems had passed, and that felt good. But then there are all these reminders everywhere in this house that this feeling is just some sort of hallucinatory sensation. Ian's like a goddamned phantom limb.

Ian steps out of the house just then, carrying a baby monitor and a hoodie. He tosses the hoodie to Lip and sits down beside him.

"You got another one of those?" Ian asks.

Lip passes him a cigarette and lighter from his shirt pocket before slipping into the hoodie and asking, "You takin' it back up?"

Ian shrugs.

"So, you got Yevgeny in there pickin' up the slack?" Lip asks.

"Yeah," Ian replies, "He's doing the rest of the cuts on the saw. Probably gonna make 'em crooked as all fuck."

Lip laughs, picturing this. "He's a cute little guy," he admits.

Ian doesn't say anything to this. They smoke in companionable silence for a bit, then Ian asks, "You think Fiona's ever gonna have kids?"

Lip looks at him and asks, "Where'd that come from?"

"I don't know. Just been thinking about it lately."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

Lip waits because Ian does know; it's just taking him a bit to put it into words he's willing to share.

Eventually, Ian does start to talk, keeping his gaze directed out toward the street.

"You know, with Yevgeny and everything," he says, "I just keep thinking how much I want that for her. If she wants that. Maybe she doesn't. But if she does, I think we screwed that up for her."

"Ian, she's twenty-three. She's got plenty of time to go out and get knocked up if she wants to."

"We messed it up," Ian insists, "She shouldn't be stuck with Debbie and Carl and Liam for, what? The next fifteen years? At least? That isn't fair. How's she supposed to have a life? Why'd we ever let her do that?"

"We didn't have much choice," Lips says. He does not like thinking about all that Fiona has given up for them, and it's irritating that Ian's bringing it up in this 'poor Fiona' capacity. Fiona made her own choices and she made her bed to lie in. It's pointless to fret about it. Lip can't stand this retroactive hand-wringing business about shit that's already happened. There is nothing to be gained from it.

"It's not fair," Ian says.

"What the hell is?" Lip snaps, "You think it's fair you're here, babysittin' some random kid, livin' in this house, workin' that shitty job?"

Ian gives him a sidelong glance then says in a low voice, "He's not 'some random kid.' Don't call him that."

"Well, he's not yours," Lip says, "I know you wish he was. But he's not. And you better remember that. Because you don't have any control over what happens to that kid. That's all between Mickey and that whore. You got no say in it, and they're sure as fuck not gonna stop and worry about what you want when this weird-ass domestic situation you've got worked out right now goes bust. One or the both of them, they'll take him and they'll split. So don't go gettin' attached. Save all this Daddy shit for your own kids, all right?"

Ian takes a drag off his cigarette and says plainly, "It's the closest I'm ever gonna get."

"Huh?"

"I'm never having my own kids."

Lip scoffs, "You're eighteen. How the fuck do you know what's gonna happen? You always wanted kids. Always. Remember that doll you had? The one from the Goodwill? What was his name?"

Ian scowls but answers, "Luther."

"Luther. Right. Named him after that fat guy down the street. God, you were a weird kid." Lip pauses to drag on his cigarette and he can still see Ian in his head, carrying that doll around the house with him everywhere. Fiona had given the doll to Ian in an attempt to comfort him when Lip started kindergarten and they were separated for the first time. Ian had been kind of obsessed with that doll until Debbie came along.

"But, see?" Lip continues making his case, "Even back then you loved playin' Daddy. You tellin' me Mickey comes along and that's it—it's off the table? Never ever gonna happen now?"

"It has nothing to do with Mickey."

"Then where's this coming from?" Lip demands, "This big proclamation that at eighteen you suddenly know you're never gonna be one of those fancy gay guys givin' your sperm to some chick with a check and pickin' up your order nine months later? Tell me how this has nothin' to do with Mickey."

Ian glances at him then shakes his head. "I'm not passing this shit on to some poor kid."

Lip is quite certain the horrible feeling in his chest is his heart breaking. Quickly, he scrambles to fix this.

"So, what?" Lip asks, "Because there's a chance one of your kids could turn out to need some mental health intervention, you're just swearin' off the whole thing? What about Fiona? You're so worried about her havin' kids. She's got the same Monica genes you do."

"Fuck," Ian whispers, clearly not having considered this. The probability has gotta be different, but Ian doesn't need to know this.

Lip continues on, encouraged. "So I shouldn't ever have any either? Avoid giving the world the gift of kids who might just turn out smart and good lookin' like me? How 'bout Debbie? You know she's gonna want a pack of them. Christ, Carl's probably out there makin' little bipolar babies as we speak."

"Jesus, Lip."

Lip puts his arm over Ian's shoulders and leans in to look at him directly in the eyes.

"Stop this," Lip says, "Stop acting like you know how everything's gonna turn out. You got no idea how you're gonna feel about things ten years from now. Shit, maybe they'll even have a cure for it by then. You have no idea what _next_ year's gonna look like. You're always runnin' so far ahead. Just relax a little."

Lip pats Ian's chest and adds, "Stop overthinking everything. And stop making all these rules for yourself, okay? No need to hold yourself to a higher standard than the rest of the world. Nobody gives a fuck."

He drops his arm from Ian and stubs out his cigarette. As Lip does this, Ian glances at his watch.

"Mickey comin' home soon?" Lip asks.

"Nah, he won't be home 'til late. Wednesdays are really busy for some reason."

"Kickin' off the TGIF early, huh?"

"I guess."

Lip glances at Ian's profile in the moonlight. He's got tile dust smeared across his temple, and he looks tired. He's looked tired for the last year. Lip thinks about the expression on Ian's face in those photos, and Lip wonders if it isn't Mickey's hold on Ian that's helping to make him so tired, this idea that Mickey's his only shot at happiness, this constant pressure Ian puts on himself not to screw it up.

"You don't owe him anything, you know that?" Lip says.

Ian flicks ash from the end of his cigarette and doesn't look at him. "I owe him everything," he says, "I wouldn't _be_ here without everything Mickey's done for me. Everything he _does_ for me."

What a ridiculously paltry thing to be grateful for. Lip stops himself from saying the first three things that come to mind. He wants to reach out and steal Ian away from all of this, screw his head back on straight, wake him up to how much he's lost, how much Mickey has cost him…but the main thing Lip wants for tonight is for Ian to keep talking. Lip's missed his brother's voice so much.

So Lip tries to keep it helpful when he says, "I just mean…don't feel like you have to do everything for him. His kid is his problem. His house is his problem. His fuckin' fucked-up family is his problem. Okay?"

Ian shakes his head. "You don't get it at all," Ian says, "I don't do this shit because I feel like I _owe_ him. It's not like keeping track of the register where it's gotta all even out at the end of the night."

"Then why're we doing this tonight?"

"I just wanted to do something nice for him, that's all. He's been really—" Ian cuts himself off and takes another drag off the cigarette.

"Been really what?" Lip asks.

Ian bows his head, like he's trying to avoid answering by hiding. Then he says, "I don't know. I think he's pissed at me about something. He's been weird lately."

Lip stiffens a little. "He, uh, say anything to you? About what's pissin' him off?"

"No," Ian says, "But I think he's getting sick of me."

"Well, fuck him, then," Lip replies.

"I tried that," Ian says. His eyes are amused as he takes the last drag off his cigarette.

"That's sick, man," Lip mutters, "Don't tell me that shit."

Ian laughs and stubs out the cigarette. "We gonna finish this?" he asks.

"Yup," Lip says, climbing to his feet, "Let's do it."

* * *

><p>The tile work continues on for ages with multiple starts and stops to attend to Yevgeny. Lip's forgotten how hard it is to get anything done with a baby around and marvels at how long ago it feels since Liam was that age. Or Carl or Debbie. It had felt like those ages were never going to end, and now he barely remembers.<p>

To Lip's great pleasure, though, Ian seems to be downright talkative while they work, despite all the interruptions. He doesn't talk about anything all that important—just tells a couple stories about guys at work then retells one that Mickey told him about something one of the whores did down at the Alibi—but Lip is thoroughly enjoying hearing them. Ian's said more to him tonight than he has in the past year.

For half a second, Lip worries that Ian's dipped into a manic phase, or something, but then Lip decides this fear is completely irrational; Ian's just let his guard down, acting like his old self. He used to do this once in a while when they were kids, just go off babbling about something, baseball plays or military maneuvers or whatever he was into at the time, and Lip would sort of just tune him out and let him go. Now Lip thinks that, had he known that Ian's voice would almost disappear entirely someday, Lip would've paid more attention. He tries to now, though. He listens intently, asks questions, urges Ian on.

"Anyway," Ian says, finishing his story as he presses another tile into the mortar, "That's what she did."

"That's pretty fucked-up," Lip says.

"Yeah," Ian pushes his tongue between his teeth as he straightens the tile out, then sits back to admire it, "You wouldn't believe some of the stuff that happens there."

"You ever hang out there?" Lip asks, "Get an eyeful?"

"Not my idea of a fun time."

"You don't help out, though? Give Mickey a hand?"

"Nah. Mickey doesn't really need it. Doesn't want me around there anyway."

"Seems kinda paternalistic."

Lip can see Ian consciously choosing to ignore this statement, as if he's just balled it up like a piece of paper and tossed it into the wastebasket.

Instead Ian says, "The angled cuts are working out really well. Looks all square now."

"Just simple math," Lip says, "Nothing special."

Ian reaches for the next tile and Lip seizes on the opportunity.

"You know," Lip says, "You don't even have to take that much math to get a degree. Depending on your major, you could get away with one, two classes tops."

The speed at which Ian's face hardens over with a protective layer is remarkable.

"Ian—"

"Don't."

"What?"

"Just, Lip…don't. Okay? Leave it. Please."

But Lip can't leave it. Lip can't ever leave anything. "I'm just sayin'—"

"Shhh!" Ian commands and Lip falls obediently silent as they both pause to listen.

Yevgeny isn't making a peep from the other room, though. Little bastard just screwed Ian over. Emboldened by this wee treachery, Lip strikes with a slightly modified weapon.

"It'd really make Mickey happy, wouldn't it?" Lip asks.

Ian hunches over and becomes suddenly engrossed in the next tile, testing the smoothness of its edges.

Lip starts preparing his following strike, but Ian surprises him and speaks first.

"Why's it such a big deal, anyway?" Ian mutters, "Why do you guys care so much?"

"Cause I don't think either one of us wants to see you rottin' away at that job for the rest of your life."

"There's nothing wrong with my job," Ian says, keeping his eyes firmly on the tile as he shoves it into the mortar then reaches for another one, "I show up every day. I do my work. They pay me. I don't hurt anybody. I don't break any laws. I just do my job, and I'm good at it."

"It's an idiot's job," Lip says, "Of course you're good at it."

Ian's hand is trembling as he places the next tile, paying no attention to the angled cut-line Lip had engineered. The careful row of tiles is thrown completely out of whack, and Lip scoots forward to fix it. Ian sits back in a huff as Lip pulls the tile out of the mortar, flips it, then repositions it carefully before pressing it back in.

Ian looks at Lip's handiwork and says to himself, "I can't even do that. I can't even handle a straight goddamn line."

"That's what I'm here for," Lip says, taking up the next tile and pressing it into place, "I'll make sure you don't fuck up."

Ian says nothing to this, just glares at the tiles.

So Lip continues guiding him, "I know you're worried about disappointing people, man, but you know how you really disappoint people? By not even tryin'."

Ian smiles like Lip has said something funny, even though there isn't any mirth in Ian's expression.

Lip backtracks, worrying that maybe he's hurt Ian's feelings. These days just getting out of bed is a sign that Ian's trying. Lip wants to show that he understands this.

"Listen," Lip says, "I know you're tryin'. I know it's a big fuckin' struggle just being normal and showin' up to work and all that shit. And nobody wants to push you, okay? If you're not ready, you're not ready. But I think and, uh, well, I think Mickey's thinks so too, that you've got a pretty decent brain still in there somewhere. And it'd be a shame to pass up a chance like this 'cause you're too scared to use it."

"I'm not scared."

"Aren't you? I mean, Jesus, Ian, why the fuck else would you let this go? Of course you're scared. We're all scared you're gonna fuck up. But that's why I'm sayin' let me help. I'll make sure you don't, okay? Just let me handle it."

Ian's doing that humorless little smile again and then he repeats, "I'm not scared."

"Yeah?" Lip asks, irritated now, "Then what's your problem? Why are you flat-out refusin' to lift a fuckin' finger to better your situation when everybody in the whole world is volunteering to help you?"

"I don't want to try," Ian replies.

"Why the hell not? Work harder, try harder, that's all you've ever done for everything. Why now is Ian Gallagher suddenly gonna get lazy?"

"'Cause I don't care."

"You care about everything."

"I don't care about this," Ian says with a shrug, "That's what great about it. I don't have to care anymore."

Lip turns from the wall to face him. "It's your life," Lip says, "How can you not care?"

"It's not my life. It's my job."

Lip has to set down the tile in his hand because he's concerned he's going to snap it if he gets any more frustrated.

"Your job has a pretty fuckin' big effect on your life, okay? Don't pretend you don't understand that puttin' in the work on this can make all of this—" Lip gestures wildly around the room, "A whole lot better."

"It's still not my life," Ian says.

Lip looks at him, puzzled.

"This wasn't any life I ever asked for," Ian explains, "I never wanted it. Why should I care?"

"Of course you care."

"No," Ian says with unnerving calm, "I care about Mickey. I care about Yevgeny. I care about you guys. That's it. I don't care about any of the rest of it. What I wanted is gone."

Lip stares at Ian. He looks so composed as he says this, like it's just a normal old fact.

"What do you think's gonna happen?" Lip demands to know, "That if you just wait it out, the Army's gonna forget about everything? That they're just gonna welcome you back, give you a gun and an officer's commission? That ain't fuckin' happenin', Ian."

"I know."

"That's all gone."

"I know."

"You blew it."

"I know."

"And even if you didn't do all of that," Lip continues, trying desperately to knock some reason into his brother's thick head, "Even if you never ran off to play Gomer Pyle, there's no way they'd take you now. You'd never pass those mental fitness tests."

"I know."

"Stop telling me you know!" Lip snaps, "Tell me you understand. You can't keep holdin' on to this stupid, bullshit GI Joe dream. If that's what's stoppin' you from doin' anything else, that's just…that's crazy, Ian. You're not that dumb."

"I'm not holding on to anything," Ian says.

As if on cue, Yevgeny starts screeching from the bedroom. Ian rises immediately to see to him, but Lip barks out, "Hey!"

Ian pauses in the doorway. "What?"

"Just…" Lip pauses, runs a mortar-encrusted hand through his hair and tries a last tactic, "Just think about if you got promoted what that money could do for Mickey and his kid. Think about how proud Fiona and Debbie'd be."

Ian gives no response before he departs for the bedroom. Lip gazes at the vacated doorway for a moment then reluctantly resumes tiling.

Lip does his best to concentrate on getting the tile up and not to think. He doesn't think about babies. Or baby dolls. Or the dreams upon dreams eliminated by one roll of the DNA dice and a couple of bad decisions.

Lip surely doesn't think about school, for him or for Ian, and how it's always been such a different thing for them and how it's never been fair. Lip doesn't think about how the hell he might find time to take on Ian's coursework for him if it comes to it.

This doesn't get Lip thinking about the fact that he has a reading quiz first thing in the morning that he's sure as hell gonna fail because he sure as hell isn't gonna have time to read through that whole chapter before class in the morning. He doesn't think about how late it's getting and how he's gonna be lucky if he gets back to campus in time to get an hour or two of sleep.

He doesn't think about any of it. Not a bit; No, Sir. Just uses that patented Lip Gallagher ability to hyper-focus on laying tile after tile after perfectly square tile.

And then there are no more tiles.

Lip steps back in surprise, taking in the sight of the finished wall.

It looks pretty good. Still needs grout and caulk and all that, but considering what the rest of the place looks like, this might just be the nicest wall in the whole damn house. Shit, it might be the best looking wall in the neighborhood.

Grinning to himself, Lip goes to fetch Ian so he can show off their work. Ian's been gone over an hour at this point—Lip's pretty sure he's using the baby as an excuse to pout. They're not in the bedroom, though, where Lip expected them to be.

Lip wanders down the hall into the living room. There he finds Ian passed out on the couch, baby in one hand, bottle in the other. Yevgeny's sound asleep too. They're both snoring.

Lip steps forward to shake Ian awake but instead just takes the bottle that's dipping precariously. He sets it on the coffee table then stands there uncertainly. He should probably take the baby, but he doesn't want to chance waking him. They both look really comfortable. Eventually, Lip decides to just let nature take its course and returns to the back of the house.

In the bathroom, Lip takes another moment to admire the perfectly straight-looking rows of tiles then gets to work mixing up the grout. He follows the directions on the box and it goes pretty smoothly.

It's gotten late by the time he finishes grouting and wiping everything down and still Ian and Yevgeny haven't stirred. Lip's getting bleary-eyed, but the job is so close to being done, he sticks with it. He's gotta allow some time for the grout to dry before he starts in on the caulk, so Lip keeps busy (and keeps awake) by cleaning up a little. He gets all the tile supplies out of the bathroom and into a fairly neat pile in the kitchen, wipes down and powers off the saw, packs it into its case. Then he returns to the bathroom with a bucket of clean water and a roll of paper towels to start cleaning up all the tile dust and blobs of mortar that seem to have found their way onto every surface. He fills the garbage can up three times before the room finally starts to look like it's no longer a construction site. If it weren't for the punched hole in the door, the broken mirror, and the general ghetto state of everything else, the place would look all right.

Lip's just got the silicone caulk loaded into the gun when Mickey comes home.

Instinctually, Lip lowers himself into a crouch in the bathtub, cradling the caulk gun like an AK-47 that's going to protect him when the enemy approaches.

Mickey comes nowhere near the bathroom, though. He doesn't seem aware that Lip's even in the house. He doesn't seem aware that _anyone_ is around because he's chattering unselfconsciously. At first, Lip thinks that Mickey is talking to himself but then realizes that he's talking to Yevgeny as he carries him toward the back of the house.

"You keepin' him up again, Piglet? Thought we talked about that. Bed by eight. Ian gets his eight hours. Thought that was the agreement…"

Lip realizes he's holding his breath as Mickey passes by the bathroom and takes Yevgeny into the bedroom. Still, Lip can't bring himself to move. He remains crouched in the bathtub, caulk gun at the ready, listening to the sound of his own breath.

"Aw, stinky-stinky. Stinky-stinky," Mickey says in the bedroom as he changes Yevgeny's diaper, "What the fuck you get him to feed you tonight? Stinky Piglet!"

There isn't much sound for a bit after that and Lip surmises Mickey's putting Yevgeny to bed. Then Mickey pads back down to the hall to the kitchen and Lip hears the sink running, then the fridge open. The house is tiny. Everything can be heard from every corner. It makes the Gallagher house feel like an English estate.

"Hey, Ian," Mickey says, "You got Popeye's?"

Ian doesn't respond and Lip imagines he's still passed out. Then Lip hears Mickey's voice from the living room this time, softer.

"Hey. Hey, Ian. Get up, man. The girls'll be home soon. They're gonna grab your bed if you don't get it."

"Mmm, Mickey," Ian says in an odd voice that Lip recognizes as being his still half-deep-asleep voice.

In the bathtub, Lip can't help but smile. Ian has always had a strange propensity for talking while still mostly asleep. Lip and Carl used to giggle themselves to tears at some of the weird shit Ian would say in that state. He once told them all about a plan he had to build a third leg. They used to try and see how long they could keep him going, asking him question after question, before he either woke up enough to come back to his senses or just slipped into full sleep again. Their record was fifteen minutes.

Mickey seems familiar with this too since he's talking to Ian the same way Lip and Carl used to, using the same gentle, amused tone.

"Ian," Mickey coaxes, "Come on. Don't sleep out here. You'll be all sore in the morning."

"Mmm, Mickey," Ian says again, "You smell like Popeye's."

"I know I fuckin' smell like Popeye's. I'm eatin' it. Come on, Bullwinkle, on your feet."

"I love Popeye's."

"I know you do. Glad to see you eatin' some real food. Need a night off from the rabbit shit once in a while."

"I can't eat Popeye's."

"I know, man, it's late. Can't feed ya after midnight. Fuckin' Mogwai."

"I don't want to be like Craig."

"Who the fuck's Craig? Come on, put your arm over my shoulder. Come on. Ups-a-daisy."

Lip can hear the shuffling, stumbling sound of Mickey half-carrying, half-walking Ian toward the bedroom.

"If I end up like Craig, I won't have any money."

"Don't be like this Craig clown, then. He don't sound too bright."

"Don't go to rehab. Craig went to rehab. Then they _fired_ him."

"Oh, that Craig," Mickey laughs as they reach the bedroom, "That they guy they fired from the club for not bein' hot no more?"

"He got _fat_ in rehab."

"Yeah, all right. I remember now."

Lip hears the mattress squeak as Mickey deposits Ian on the bed.

"I'm so tired," Ian proclaims.

"I know. You ain't been gettin' enough sleep. We talked about this."

"Mickey's lecturing me again."

"Hey, I'm Mickey. Remember?"

"Mickey's worse than Lip."

"Jesus, will you can it already and go to sleep? And what the hell you got all over you? Plaster? What you been doin' all night?"

There's no more talking for a bit, just the sound of drawers in the dresser opening and closing. Mickey must be changing clothes. Lip realizes he's had several opportunities by this point to slip out of the bathroom and make a break for it, to get out of the house before Mickey catches him and goes for round two on his face. Lip's found himself unwilling to move, though, too fascinated. He's not sure what he had imagined Mickey and Ian to be like when they think no one's around, but it was not this. Of course he'd expected Mickey to treat Ian a little nicer than Mickey treats everyone else, but this tenderness has caught Lip off guard.

"I don't wanna get fired," Ian says, still half-asleep.

"Pretty hard to fire you if you don't work there no more," Mickey replies.

"Did I get fired?"

"You quit."

"I did?"

"Long time ago. Go to sleep, okay? Shut your yap and go to sleep."

"I can't be like Craig. What's Fiona gonna do?"

"You're not like fuckin' Craig. You're perfect. Now shut up and go to sleep."

"What does Fiona say about that?"

"Fiona says go to sleep."

"She's as bad as Lip. I'm moving in with Mickey."

"Yeah, do that," Mickey mutters, stalking into the bathroom in his boxers and slippers.

Lip catches his breath and crouches petrified, gun at the ready. Mickey doesn't see him, though, just kicks up the toilet seat and starts taking a leak.

Lip lowers his head in an attempt not to look, but Mickey catches the movement out of the corner of his eye and jolts back, getting pee on the floor and the side of the tub.

"What the _fuck_?!" Mickey hollers.

Lip is surprised to find that he's pressed himself as far back against the wall as he can and is still holding the caulk gun out in front of him in defense. Slowly, he forces himself to lower the gun, though his heart is pounding and seems to have climbed up into his throat.

It's like a ventriloquist act with another Lip from another time controlling his voice as he hears himself say, "That's, uh, that's what you're rammin' my brother with, huh?"

Mickey does not look amused as he tucks himself back into his shorts and says, "What the hell are you doin' in my house?"

Lip gestures stupidly toward the gleaming new tiles that now strike him as ridiculously out of place next to the other two walls of cracked and mildewed yellow ones.

"Put up some tile," Lip says.

Mickey gives the tiles a look that implies they're crawling with cockroaches. "Who told you to do that?"

"Wasn't my idea."

Mickey stares at Lip for a moment, then he starts to call for Ian.

Lip cuts him off by reaching out a hand toward him. Mickey jerks away and Lip holds up his hands as best he can in a sign of peace while still juggling the gun.

"Let him sleep," Lip says, "I'm goin', all right? I'm gone. I was never here."

Lip steps gingerly out of the bathtub then pauses and gives the gun to Mickey.

"You need to caulk the seams," Lip tells him, "Then it's done. You know how that works?"

"I know how caulk works," Mickey says sardonically.

"Good. Then you got everything under control."

Lip walks past Mickey and down the hall toward the living room. Instead of turning for there, though, he enters the kitchen and takes out his last Miller High Life. He'll be damned if Mickey's gonna drink it. And then, emboldened, Lip marches right back to the bathroom where he finds Mickey inspecting the tile.

Mickey straightens up and it's clear from his expression he's gauging whether Lip's coming back for a fight.

Lip points the bottle at him and says, "Stop using Ian as your free twenty-four-hour daycare. It's fuckin' cruel."

Lip doesn't stick around to watch that register. He stomps down the hall and past the passel of whores who've just bustled through the front door. He shoves his way through the hoard and out onto the stoop where a couple hours ago he and Ian had been joking around like old times.

The sun is starting to rise, turning the sky a variety of Easter egg colors. Lip makes his way to the el, and the neighborhood has never looked more ugly.

* * *

><p>Lip only ends up getting an hour to sleep before he has to be in the dishroom for the breakfast shift and he spends half that time trying to actually fall asleep. When he does finally sleep, he has a fucked-up dream that Ian and Mandy have had a baby, but it was born a baby doll. Lip keeps trying to point out to them that their child is plastic, but they ignore him. When he pulls the baby's arm off to prove it to them, somehow the doll cries and everyone gets mad at Lip. Mandy turns to him with so much disgust and she asks him, "Why do you have to ruin everybody's babies?"<p>

Then his alarm goes off and Lip hits his head on the edge of the nightstand as his dives blindly for the clock.

The morning gets no better nor less painful. Lip suffers through work with a splitting headache and they play that damn Taylor Swift song four times before his shift is over. He's so tired that his usual defenses are debilitated and thoughts of Karen start drifting in unbidden while he works.

It's not so much Karen that he thinks about, though, it's her baby. Or not Karen's actual baby, not Timmy Wong's Downs Syndrome baby. The baby Lip thinks about today, the baby Lip thinks about more often than he would ever admit to anyone, is the baby he imagined was inside Karen all along—Lip's baby.

Most of the time when Lip has imagined what something or someone will be like in advance, it is immediately swallowed up by the whatever reality turns out to be. He'd had an idea of what Ronald Kuzner would be like before Lip met him, only based off his name on the roommate assignment paper, but that Ronald Kuzner had evaporated the second Lip met Kuz. That's how it always works. He'd had an idea of what Debbie and Carl and Liam would be like before they were born, but they all turned out to be completely different and immediately usurped their imagined anticipatory versions.

But Lip's baby—that's how he thinks of it—never appeared in the living world. Lip's baby never got replaced by Timmy Wong's kid. Lip's baby lingers on, haunting him in unexpected moments. Sometimes Lip still catches himself thinking of the baby as out there somewhere, off with a wealthy family in Lake Forest or Winnetka. Lip's baby is blond like him and Karen, and smart like him and Karen. Lip's baby will go to private school and eat organic food and probably be lazy because Lip's baby doesn't have to worry about things or about people depending on him and demanding great things of him. Lip's baby is nobody's golden goose. Lip's baby is the golden egg.

As soon as Lip realizes the ghost of his baby has returned, he startles to attention and shakes it off fiercely. He shoves all those thoughts (well, he tucks them gently—Lip is gentle with his baby) into the lead-lined box next to Karen and locks it and kicks it back into the deep, cold storage recesses of his brain. Then he marches over to the dish dryer and starts unloading the dishes. He is slow and methodical, letting his hands burn.

He sleepwalks through the rest of his shift, trying to focus on anything that is not important. He counts the dishes that he washes, counts the knives and spoons and forks that make their way down the belt. He even counts the wall tiles behind the sink before he scolds himself for where that leads. Fuck wall tiles. Fuck that house.

And then he cuts himself on a goddamn butter knife.

The blood, at least, is a reprieve. Lip watches it swirl into the water for a few seconds before he thinks to pull out his hand and staunch it. It isn't a big cut at all, just enough to bleed a little, but it's an excuse. He leaves the sink to get a paper towel, asks his boss for the First Aid kit. His boss helps him with the Band-Aid then dismisses him fifteen minutes before the end of shift.

Lip takes the unexpected time to slip back up to his room. It's not enough time to sleep, but it's enough time to have a drink and some aspirin, try to turn off the screaming ache in his head. He contemplates skipping class, but decides not to. Amanda's gonna be there.

Lip bombs his reading quiz, as expected. He's doubly annoyed because Amanda refuses to let him cheat off her, puts up her shoulder to block his view in a way that clearly implies that's what he was trying to do. Lip acts like he wasn't going to anyway, but he's offended as he stares at the asinine questions and commands himself not to write out a bunch of facetious responses. He puts down some bullshit instead, hopes for partial credit and then studiously ignores Amanda for the rest of the lecture.

But as soon as class lets out, he can't hold back.

"What's your problem?" he demands as they walk from the room.

"I have a problem?" she asks, "Tell me. What's my problem? That I wouldn't let you cheat off me because you decided to fuck off to the Southside and party last night? I have the problem?"

"I wasn't partying."

"I don't care," she says lightly, "What you were doing last night is of zero interest to me."

"Yeah, nothin' I do is of interest to you."

"Stop being such a child. It is not attractive."

Lip grips his books tighter and says nothing. Unfortunately, Amanda seems to take this as a signal that she should continue talking.

"Seriously," she says, "You need to grow up. You screw up, you make bad decisions, you need to own that. You need to deal with the consequences or just stop making bad decisions."

It takes all Lip's self-control not to launch his books down the hallway.

"You have no idea," he says tersely, "No idea what kind of shit I have to deal with."

Amanda tilts her head and says mockingly, "Oh, I think I'm pretty familiar with the Gallagher family sob stories. I'm quite well acquainted with your self-pity. I've had to listen to you drunk _a lot_."

She turns to him and drops the bitchy smile as she adds, "That's not the point, though. The point isn't that you have shit to deal with. We all have shit to deal with. The point is how you handle it."

She's such a sanctimonious bitch. She likes to act like she's more cynical and above all that shit, but she's just as Oprah as everybody else.

"So, I fucked up on the school stuff last night, all right?" Lip says and then reaches for the guilt, "Help me out once in a while. I thought you gave a shit. Thought I could count on you."

"Whoa, whoa," Amanda says, "Hold up. You have counted on me plenty. And I've come through for you like a champ. You cannot complain about that. But I'm sorry. I will help you. Like I've helped you with everything this past year, but I draw the line at doing shit _for_ you. I am not enabling your crappy choices."

Lip opens his mouth to protest this accusation, but Amanda keeps talking.

"No," she says, "Listen. The sex is good and you're cute and you've got a hell of a lot of potential, but I am not your fucking Geisha."

Lip rolls his eyes. "Don't turn this into a goddamn race thing. That's lazy."

"_You're_ lazy," she replies, "And you're an idiot if you think I'll just let you use me like that. I'm not one of your dumb hoodrats, okay? I am not here to make you feel big and smart and special."

"Then what the hell's the point?"

She takes a step back and looks him over, but Lip refuses to feel any regret about his statement. What the hell _is _the point of having her around if she just makes him feel like crap? He's got plenty of people doing that job already.

Amanda takes out her phone and checks her calendar app. Lip knows she's checking his schedule and it annoys him anew that she has access to it. Sure, she put it all together for him, but he didn't ask her to. He never invited her in to browbeat him and hover and nag. He never even fucking invited her into his bed. This is all her. Why the fuck does he keep sleeping with crazy chicks?

Amanda glances up from her phone and instructs him, "You have two hours before your lab," she tells him, "You should go get some sleep. You're at you're worst when you haven't slept."

"Fuck off," he says.

Amanda shrugs. She puts her phone away and says, "See you later," as if she doesn't care at all and walks away.

Lip turns so he doesn't have to watch her go. He does have two hours until his shift and he _was_ planning on catching a nap, but now he's too pissed off. Kuz is in class right now, so that's no good. Instead, Lip goes in search of Ian. Ian is his best shot at a sympathetic ear.

It doesn't take Lip long to track Ian down—Lip knows his routine pretty well—and he finds him changing out garbage bin liners in a washroom in the Biology building. Ian seems puzzled but not displeased to see him. Lip feels warmed all over.

"Hey, what's up?" Ian asks, fluffing open a black garbage bag before sliding it into the receptacle, "You all right?"

"You wanna blow this off and go get some drinks?" Lip asks.

Ian seems to take this as a joke and not an actual suggestion. "What happened?" he asks.

"Amanda's being a cunt."

Ian nods patronizingly and this pisses Lip off a little. He wants Ian to engage, say something nasty about Amanda, but he's not going to. Lip hates it when Ian acts like Lip's romantic life is too stupid to even be worth discussing. Like Ian's anyone to act smug.

"Speaking of cunts," Lip says, "How'd Mickey like that tile?"

Ian bows his head slightly and focuses on marking some stuff of on a clipboard as he says, "Didn't really do the trick. He's still being weird."

"Can't ever make anybody happy," Lip commiserates, "Don't get stuck in that cycle of tryin'. Just stay focused on what's important."

"What's that?" Ian asks, moving onto the next garbage can.

"Huh?"

"What's important if you're not trying to make people you care about happy?"

Lip looks at Ian, unable to tell if Ian is joking or trying to make a point or genuinely asking.

"You," Lip says, "You are what's important. Don't worry about anybody else."

Ian nods at this advice then fluffs another garbage bag and asks, "You get any sleep at all last night?"

Lip shrugs this off. "Doesn't matter."

"Sorry," Ian says, "You should've woke me up to help finish it. I didn't mean to conk out on you."

"Eh, you needed it."

Ian makes a face at being coddled and concentrates on finishing up the last garbage can then moving on to refilling toilet paper dispensers.

Lip watches Ian and thinks about Mickey last night when he didn't think anyone else was home, how he spoke so casually and surely about Ian needing more sleep, needing to eat better. Lip had been sort of reassured by that, that Ian's heath was actually on Mickey's radar, but now the thought makes Lip a bit anxious. It probably means there are concerns Lip hasn't been made privy to. Lip sets aside his own irritation for the moment and decides to investigate.

"How you doin' lately?" Lip asks.

"Fine. How _you_ doing?" Ian doesn't skip a beat in his practiced refilling of eight toilet paper dispensers in a row. He's definitely developed a rhythm to his work. Trust Ian to make this job look like it can be treated just like an elaborately regimented rifle drill. He even maintains perfect posture throughout.

"No," Lip says, "I mean, really. How're you doing? How you feeling?"

Ian looks back at him and Lip can see his hackles rising. This is veering dangerously close to off-limits talk.

Ian seems to reluctantly grant Lip permission to trespass, though, as he sighs and says, "My time's all shit."

"What do you mean?" Lip asks, horrified by the sound of this.

"Running," Ian replies, "My time's all shit these days. Fucking hate it."

Lip is relieved. "Who cares about running?"

"I do," Ian says plainly. He doesn't look up. It's like Lip's just insulted him somehow.

"That your meds, you think?" Lip asks, "Making you slow?"

"Yeah," Ian admits, marking down the toilet paper rolls on his supply checklist, "I got no energy or stamina on these. I'm just tired all the time."

"Well," Lip says, "It's a trade-off, right? Your mind or your feet. Probably too much to ask for both."

Ian shrugs and moves on to the soap dispensers.

Lip follows him, concern growing. "Any—anything else?" Lip asks, "You doin' all right? Other than the running bullshit? Any real problems?"

Ian shrugs again and keeps his back to Lip, his head held straight. Lip's been pushed off the property, the gates and doors all locked once more. Lip can almost hear the bolts turning. After everything they talked about last night, this is a disappointment. It's like Lip's being kicked back farther away than he started. After everything Lip did for Ian, all the good advice he gave him…is everybody but Lip taking part in National Be A Selfish Asshole Day?

"Hey," Lip says, trying to be reasonable and keep his eye on the important part, "I'm just sayin', don't go lookin' for excuses to stop taking your meds, all right?"

Ian turns then, and he looks irritated. "You said the same thing last night. Why do you keep thinking I'm gonna just go off my meds 'cause I don't like a side effect?"

"Monica," Lip replies, only realizing this is the truth as he says it, "She was always lookin' for some bullshit reason to stop."

Ian stares at Lip for a second, but then he returns his attention to his cart and starts rearranging it with extra dedication.

"Listen," Ian says, "I gotta get back to work."

"Oh, come on," Lip says, realizing Ian's been insulted, "Don't be such a pussy. You gotta know that Monica's gonna be our reference point for everything with you. You can't hold that against me."

Ian nods, still fussing with items on his cart, "That mean when I slit my wrists, you won't come see me?"

"What the fuck are you talkin' about?"

"Just using Monica as my reference point."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Lip says, "Don't say shit like that."

Ian looks slightly chastened. He takes out a spray bottle and sponge and heads over to the sinks.

"Hey," Lip says, following Ian and willing his own voice to steady up despite the fact that it seems to want to come out all wobbly, "You're not…you're not really thinkin' about that kind of stuff, right? Havin' thoughts?"

Ian pauses and clasps Lip on the shoulder. "No," Ian tells him, "Everything's fine."

He gives Lip a big, reassuring smile then drops his hand from Lip's shoulder and proceeds to start spraying and wiping down the sinks.

Maybe it's because that ghost baby has been haunting him all morning, maybe Lip's still hung up on watching Ian playing daddy with Yevgeny all night, but Ian's hand on Lip's shoulder has caused him to recall a memory he's tried very hard to forget. They were all in the delivery room on Thanksgiving, watching Karen have her baby, Monica discarded somewhere else in the hospital.

Lip had been alone there. Well, alone with Sheila and fucking Jody, and he'd felt woozy and terrified. It was much more gory and real than he'd expected. Lip had thought for a moment he was going to pass out, like some dumb sitcom dad on TV. But then they'd all been there, his family back beside him, appearing from nowhere. Ian put his hands on Lip's shoulders and Lip had felt revived and stabilized. All that anxiety rapidly alchemized into thrill; it was the most exciting moment of Lip's life. He watched breathless as the baby crowned—his baby, Lip's baby, was finally entering the real world.

"You're a dad," Ian had hissed into Lip's ear, the only words Lip could make out from anyone amongst the chaos. Then Ian had laughed and squeezed Lip's shoulders tighter, murmuring, "I'm an uncle."

After months and months of Ian tearing Lip apart, telling him what an idiot he was, how he was ruining his life, how Karen and this baby were a trap, Ian was happy for him. Ian sounded as excited for this baby as Lip was. In that moment, Ian holding tight to Lip, all of them watching in petrified elation, in that moment before everything went to shit, Lip had thought, "_This is gonna be okay._"

He'd had Ian behind him, supporting him. Of course it was gonna be okay.

Lip blinks, watching Ian now, brandishing a toilet brush and a bottle of cleaner, heading into a stall.

"Hey," Lip says, "You wanna get out of here? Let's play some pool. Forget about all this."

For the second time, Ian doesn't treat this as a legitimate offer. "Don't you have class in, like, an hour?" he asks, "Why don't you go take a nap?"

Lip's annoyance flares. Why the fuck does everybody think it's their business to tell Lip he needs a fucking nap like he's a fucking toddler? And why the fuck does everybody seem to have his schedule memorized? When did Lip's life become everybody's business?

Ian continues working, scrubbing the next toilet then the next. Lip's irritation grows as he watches him.

"You know," Lip says coolly, "Just 'cause everybody has to watch out for you like you're made of glass doesn't mean you get to act like I am too."

Ian keeps scrubbing the last toilet, doesn't turn back to face Lip as he says, "Do whatever you want, then."

He straightens up and flushes the toilet, returns the brush to the cart. He grabs a roll of paper towels and a bottle of disinfectant and starts wiping down the first of the stalls.

"Just stop bothering me while I'm trying to work," Ian says.

"What?" Lip sneers, "Am I throwin' your timing off?"

Ian juts out his chin and settles into the silent treatment.

Lip watches him a little longer, taking in the tension of Ian's brow as he determinedly sprays, wipes, sprays and wipes. What a futile job. The whole thing's for naught the second someone comes in to take a leak. Yet Ian still works at it like he's sterilizing a room for the boy in the bubble. Lip's never known anyone to waste so much energy on pointless shit. No wonder he's tired all the time.

"Yeah, I'm gonna go," Lip announces.

"See ya."

Lip narrows his eyes at the back of Ian's head once more, pockets the urge to kick him, make him lose his balance, interrupt his stupid, dogged rhythm. Instead Lip thrusts his fists into his pockets and heads out.

* * *

><p>Lip sits outside and chain-smokes, killing time before his next class starts. He should be reading up on the class material since he didn't get to it last night, but he's too tired and too pissed off. He looks out across the dead, brown landscape of campus in November and tries to will the ghost of his baby to leave him alone, but it keeps hovering today, just out of eyeshot. So Lip lets himself brood on it and lets himself get mad in a way he hasn't in a long time.<p>

It was supposed to be a relief, but it wasn't a relief at all—it felt like a gyp. All those months Lip had turned his life upside-down, tried to mold himself into something like a passable good father in that fucked-up situation, all that agony of not knowing what he was supposed to do, of having no control over any of it at all…every bit of it had been a waste the second they all got a look at the baby. Lip had nobody throughout it all, nobody on his side, and he'd had nobody afterward either. Ian, Fiona, Mandy, fucking Karen…not one of them had been anything but worthless and mean through the whole ordeal, and then after they all acted as if it had never happened.

At some point Lip realizes his class has started. He continues smoking until it's too late to bother going, then he finishes his cigarette and heads up to his room to finally grab that nap.

He's surprised when he gets to the room and finds Kuz sitting on the floor, blazing up.

"Hey," Lip greets him, throwing his backpack onto his desk chair, "What're you doin' here?"

"Flunked my Mandarin midterm," Kuz replies, "I am now officially failing two classes."

"Shit," Lip commiserates, though internally he's glad to not be in the same boat. He takes out his whiskey and offers to pour Kuz a cup, but Kuz waves it off. Lip pours himself a cup and sits down across from his roommate.

"I really got my work cut out for me if I wanna save this semester," Kuz moans, "I'm so fucked."

"Sorry."

Kuz passes the joint to Lip and asks, "So what're _you_ doing here?"

Lip inhales gratefully and closes his eyes for a blessed, beautiful moment. Kuz's stash is so much better than Lip's.

"Amanda's being a bitch," Lip says after he exhales.

"What else is new?"

"And my brother's an ass."

Kuz nods. They smoke and drink in silence for a bit until Kuz speaks up, continuing as if there's been no pause in the conversation.

"What's the deal with you guys?" he asks, "How are you a student here and he's a janitor? You adopted, or something? He get dropped on his head?"

Kuz is amused like this is the funniest thing in the world to point out. Lip momentarily wants to slug him, wipe that idiot smile off his face, but he tamps down on that desire. Kuz doesn't know. Kuz wouldn't say shit like that if he had any idea at all.

Lip holds the smoke in as long as he can before he exhales and explains, "I passed the tests. He didn't."

"To get in here? You never mentioned he applied."

"No, no," Lip explains, taking another sip and remembering how badly whiskey and pot taste together, how the combination always makes him feel sort of sick, "Like, the tests to see if you're…how did they phrase it? 'Gifted and Talented.' Like in grade school."

"Gifted and talented," Kuz repeats, "Man, I knew you were gifted and talented the first time I saw you. I said 'Self, there is a guy who is gifted and talented.'"

Lip laughs at that. He sits back and takes another sip. This afternoon is finally getting a little better.

Kuz is still smiling and giggling as he marvels, "So your brother got declared officially 'not talented'? That's rough. Fuck the public school system."

Lip allows himself to drain his glass before he responds. The fun has evaporated, though.

"Ian's just got other talents. He can run a six minute mile," Lip says, "Or used to. Maybe not so much anymore."

Kuz snickers. "I can run a sixty minute mile."

Lip grins and leans back against the bed. He repeats something Frank had said after Ian didn't pass the tests, "We've all got our talents."

"Yeah," Kuz says, "Like how I have a big fucking dick."

Lip laughs and says, "I think that's more of a gift than a talent."

"It's how you use your gifts that makes you talented."

"You read that on a poster somewhere? Right next to 'Hang in There, Kitty'?"

Kuz giggles once more then gives Lip the rest of the joint and settles onto his bed to do his homework.

Lip finishes up the joint on his own, staring at the ugly pattern of the carpet, thinking about those tests all those years ago. If Lip had to point to an event where the first divide between him and Ian had been staked, it would have to be those tests. Those tests had changed everything for both of them forever.

The testing had happened earlier than usual. Most kids Lip knew had been tested in third or fourth grade—that's when they'd tested Debbie. But for Lip and Ian, it had gone down much earlier. That was Lip's fault. Had Lip not made a show of himself, not said anything, they probably could've gotten a few more years before they knew that there was something officially different between the two of them. But Lip had been trying to fix things.

It wasn't long after they'd moved into the house on Wallace that a social worker had come sniffing around. Someone had called about the wild, filthy kids at the end of the street who were home all day despite Labor Day having passed ages ago. She hadn't taken them away like they'd feared, but she'd done something nearly as bad; she'd insisted that Lip and Fiona had to enroll in school. She'd strongly recommended to Frank that Ian go to preschool, but of course there'd been no money for that. After a flurry of paperwork and threats and Frank Gallagher excuses and lies, it was settled. Fiona and Lip would start at Pittman Elementary that Monday. Ian would stay home with Frank until the next school year.

Lip had wanted none of it. Fiona had been in school intermittently before that back when Monica was still around, and Lip had never liked the sound of anything Fiona told him about it. What really upset him, though, was being forced apart from Ian. The two of them had never been separated longer than twenty minutes. Now Lip was expected to leave him from seven to two every day. And leave him with Frank. _Alone_.

Fiona didn't like the idea anymore than Lip, but she pushed for compliance. They'd been in foster care before when the boys were too little to remember, and she was terrified of going back. She argued with Lip that if they didn't leave Ian with Frank, the lady would come back and send them off with strangers. Fiona hadn't learned the phrase 'the devil you know,' but she had certainly understood the concept.

Lip had protested right up until they left for school that first morning. He'd argued and argued and argued with Fiona the stupidity of the situation. He and Ian were practically the same age. If Lip could go to school, Ian should be able to come too. Or if Ian had to stay home, Lip should get to stay home too and go together with him next year. Lip thought they could just not go at all. Or maybe sneak Ian in. Fiona held firm, though, her dread of foster care overriding her natural tendency to listen to Lip. And that unusual rigidity shut Lip up finally. He didn't like seeing Fiona afraid.

The image of Ian the morning they left him is still burned into Lip's memory. Ian was sitting on the couch, clutching that Luther doll that Fiona had got him from Goodwill that weekend when they'd gone to buy Lip a backpack. Ian looked so small in Lip's old corduroys and a Batman t-shirt (another guilt purchase by Fiona that weekend). He'd tried to sit up tall and attentive as Fiona told him not to touch the stove or answer the door or answer the phone or go outside or wake up Frank if at all possible. Ian had been holding Luther like a real baby, like he would hold Debbie less than a year later, and he assured Fiona he would be good. Then he'd rested his chin on top of Luther's head and watched them placidly as they abandoned him.

Lip had felt too sick to speak all the way to school. Fiona didn't talk either.

Kindergarten was the stupidest thing Lip had ever seen in his life. He'd been mildly nervous about starting midway through the school year, but then he'd got there and they were still learning letters of the alphabet and how to count to twelve. Some of the kids didn't know the names of all the colors yet. They spent a ridiculous amount of time coloring and singing. It all felt like the biggest joke in the world. He'd had to leave Ian behind for this?

The ironic part was, Ian would've loved kindergarten. He still liked to watch all those baby counting shows with cartoons and puppets and songs. Ian would've fit right in.

As Lip lay on his mat during mandatory naptime, fooling with his dumb 'Philip' nametag, he tried to imagine what Ian was doing at home. Probably watching TV or playing with their cars. Lip wondered if Frank was up yet. Probably not. Hopefully not.

Lip rolled onto his belly, feeling sick again. Looking out over all these dumb kids picking their noses and playing with their clothes, some of them actually napping, Lip knew he had to get out of here. He had to get back to Ian.

The solution was laughably simple. As soon as naptime was over it was art period and Lip made his move. He threw his scissors at a girl named Ashley, dumped his construction paper all over the floor and, finally, when this wasn't enough, clocked a boy named Julio in the head with the fat bottle of classroom-size Elmer's Glue and told the teacher's aide to go fuck herself.

It didn't get him told to leave the school and to never come back, however; it got him sent to the Principal's office. They weren't going to send him home without being picked up by his parent or guardian. Lip kicked his feet against the secretary's desk in frustrated boredom as she tried and failed to get Frank on the phone. As lunchtime rolled around, she took up her purse and then ushered Lip in to the actual Principal's office, dumping him off so that she could go to lunch.

The Principal was another stupid lady too, and Lip grew more irritated as she asked him in babyish tones why he did what he did to the nice kids in his class. At first he played dumb, trying to get away with "I don't know," but she worked him around until he admitted that he needed to go home. Lip was momentarily torn away from thinking about Ian and Frank when she said, sounding oddly impressed, "So you planned it?"

Lip paused, feeling a tiny glimmer of pride as he explained his escalating steps of attack, only performing each new bad act when it became clear that the previous one was not going to be enough. He was crushed, though, when she informed him that he would never likely be sent home for good; at best he would only go home for the day.

They were interrupted just then when someone came in with two trays of cellophane-packaged lunch. Lip stared at the spaghetti, fruit cocktail, bread and milk in front of him and asked, "Is this just because I'm in the Principal's office?"

"No, Philip," she told him, "At our school, you get hot lunch. For many of our students, unfortunately, it's the only meal they have all day. Isn't that sad?"

Lip didn't think there was anything sad about a free lunch, but he didn't say so. He just busily tucked into it, reading the fliers on the bulletin board as he ate.

His eyes widened as he read one in particular. Choking slightly on his milk, he pointed at it and asked, "We can get breakfast too?"

The Principal stared at Lip as if he'd just told _her _to go fuck herself. "Did someone tell you that?" she asked.

"It says right there," Lip said, taking the poster off its thumbtack to show her since she was apparently half-blind. Holding it up to her, he read out loud, "Chicago Public Schools Breakfast Program: Fueling Chicago's Children For a Brighter Future."

"That's right," she said after an awkward moment, "Some of our students do qualify for the breakfast program as well."

"What do you have to do to get it?" Lip asked, "Be poor? We're poor."

"You certainly might qualify, then," she replied.

"Could my brother get breakfast too?" Lip asked, "He's almost the same age as me. He should be here. He'd like school."

The Principal asked a few questions about Ian then, and Lip took the opportunity to brag a little since she seemed interested. If he could sell her on the idea that Ian was ready for school, old enough or not, Lip figured that she'd probably wave him in. Ian could be lying next to Lip on a mat tomorrow, singing about numbers. Lip exaggerated a bit—Ian could read a little already because Lip had taught him, but he couldn't read like Lip could, despite what Lip told her. Ian also wasn't that great at math as Lip made him out to be, though he really did get the space heater working again that time in the spring.

It all seemed to be going quite well. The Principal brought Lip down to the Gifted and Talented office, introduced him to some more women and they had Lip sit for a long time and take a whole bunch of tests. Lip found it quite entertaining and was very pleased that they did such a bad job hiding how impressed they were with him. Nobody had ever paid Lip that much attention before. He soaked it up and almost didn't want to leave; everybody seemed so delighted by him.

The best part, though, was that they told Lip to have his father bring Ian by the next day to sit for testing too. As Lip met up with Fiona at the end of the day and they walked home together, he explained to her with glee how he'd fixed everything. All Ian had to do was come take these silly tests and they'd surely let him in.

"See," Lip told her as they headed onto Wallace, "I told you it was that simple."

Ian had been so excited to see them when they got home, and Fiona and Lip were relieved that their brother seemed no worse for wear. Ian was even more excited when Lip told him that he could start coming to school with him the next day. Fiona gave Lip a warning look about having said this, but it was too late; Ian was thrilled. He kept Lip up babbling about it and asking questions all night.

They'd talked Frank into taking Ian in the next morning with the promise that if Ian passed, Frank wouldn't have to watch him all day anymore. He would be free to do what he pleased without any kids 'hovering,' as Frank always described it. That had gotten Frank up and dressed. He even shaved and washed his hair.

The ladies at the school were nice to Lip again, even though they made him and Frank sit outside the office and watch Ian through a big window. Lip tried to wave at Ian, but one of the women brought Lip in briefly to show him how the window looked like a mirror on the inside. Lip was fascinated.

"They have those in jail too," Frank informed Lip when he came back out to sit with him and wait, "All institutions are the same. Same shit, different sign on the outside."

While Frank read through the report the ladies had given him about Lip's performance and interview the day before, Lip watched Ian through the glass.

Ian started off his usual cheerful self—smiling and answering questions. The ladies gave him Kool-Aid and Chips Ahoy, which they hadn't done with Lip; everybody always liked Ian better than Lip. But that seemed to be a good sign. Lip watched as Ian played with blocks for them and filled out picture worksheets and responded to flash cards. As the interview dragged on, though, Lip could see Ian growing antsy and bored, slouching in his chair. At one point Ian started slumping down on the table, playing idly with one of the blocks while they talked. Lip knew you weren't supposed to do that.

"Come _on_, Ian," Lip whispered.

Frank glanced up from the report and watched Ian for a moment before he said, "Don't think he's doing too well."

Lip felt like crying. Ian was ruining everything.

"Seems like you did pretty well, though," Frank noted, looking back down at the report, "Not surprising. Always knew you were smart."

Lip tore his eyes away from Ian's sinking ship to stare at Frank.

Frank sniffed as he read on and shook his head. "Off the charts smart," he murmured, "They're gonna love you here. You're the golden goose."

"What do you mean?" Lip asked.

Frank leaned over conspiratorially and Lip was distracted by the fact that Frank's breath smelled like toothpaste instead of beer.

"The way it works is, kids like you, little fucking geniuses, you bring up the test score average of the whole school. And you know what that means?"

Lip shook his head.

"Money," Frank said. "It's _always_ about money."

"For me?" Lip asked.

Frank chuckled. "Oh, no, oh god, no. Money for you? No. Money for them. Bonuses. Perks. Apple computers. Staff retreats. It's all a racket. You guys are the ones who keep everybody else in this piss-ant little public school afloat. Everybody else leeches off of your smarts. And what do you get? Ha! Harder homework. And it's not just school. Once people 'round here figure out that you're smart, hoo boy, they're gonna want you to do everything for 'em. Expect you to go out, make it big, come back and pay off all their bills, make them set for life. Everybody's gonna feel like they own a piece of the golden goose. It never ends."

Lip frowned and turned his attention back to the window. Ian seemed to be doing very poorly at whatever challenge they'd set before him. Ian was gripping his pencil tight and looked like he was about to start crying.

"Hey," Frank said, swatting Lip at the shoulder, "Better get cracking on laying those golden eggs."

Then Frank gestured toward Ian and said, "This one's gonna need you to."

The truth was confirmed when the ladies finally led Ian out and one of them said warmly, "See you next year, Ian."

They shooed Lip and Ian off down the hallway while the ladies talked to Frank for a few minutes. As the boys kicked around at the other end of the hall, Ian looked glum.

"Sorry I didn't do good," Ian said.

"It doesn't matter," Lip told him.

"Sorry I'm not smart."

"It's okay," Lip said, "Bein' smart is dumb anyway."

That made Ian laugh and Lip felt marginally better. As Frank walked toward them, though, Lip's heart sank back down.

"What'd they say?" Lip asked.

"Could be worse," Frank replied, nodding toward Ian, "You're not a total idiot."

"I'm not?"

"High average," Frank said with pride, "No Gallaghers are ever just _average_."

Ian beamed at that.

"You know he can read a little?" Frank asked Lip.

"Yeah," Lip said, "I'm teachin' him."

Frank just shook his head.

"They say anything about me?" Lip asked.

"Wanted to promote you," Frank said.

"What does that mean?"

"Bump you up a couple grades. Make life a lot harder on you. Don't worry—I put a stop to that song and dance. Easy Street for you. You're just gonna coast."

Lip wasn't sure how he felt about this. Maybe he could've been in class with Fiona if he'd asked. That would have been something, at least. Still, Lip wasn't eager to leave Ian any further behind.

"Check this out," Frank whispered, leaning over and pulling them both close. He produced from his pocket a booklet of what turned out to be coupons. Frank must have swiped it off a desk in one of the school offices.

"You get one of these little tickets," Frank said, "for every A on your report card. Says it gives you a free hamburger at Burger King."

Frank flicked the booklet of coupons like a flip-book in Lip's face and said, "We'll be eatin' for a week."

Ian appeared very impressed by the coupons and Frank handed him the booklet to carry then tousled the back of his head.

"Let's go get some capitalist rewards, boys," Frank said, steering them toward the exit.

"Don't I have to go to school?" Lip asked.

"Not today. It's Father-Son Day. No—it's Pulaski Day," Frank said with a flourish, "The holiday they created to keep all the Polacks happy."

"We're not Polish," Lip said.

"Yeah, well, they don't give us St. Patrick's Day off, do they? Come on."

"Should we get Fiona?" Ian asked, looking around as if he could spot her through the cinder block walls.

"Nah," Frank said, "Boys only. What she doesn't know about she won't miss."

Ian gave Lip a look, but they both followed Frank out anyway.

The next morning, Lip went to school with Fiona and did not complain. It was the first of many times that Lip would have to leave Ian behind, and there was nothing either of them could do about it. It never stopped feeling, though, like Lip had dropped Ian into shark-infested waters and was expected to just row away in his one-man boat never looking back.

"Fuck," Lip mutters, rolling onto his side, the stiff industrial carpet pressing roughly into his face.

"You all right, dude?" Kuz asks, leaning toward him.

"Think I'm gonna be sick," Lip whispers. It turns out that whiskey and pot and no sleep and shitty days and ghost babies are a terrible combination.

"Ew," Kuz says, shirking back. He grabs the wastebasket from under Lip's desk and shoves it at him.

Lip groans. The whole room is spinning and he can feel his pulse, louder than he's ever heard it, in his ears.

"I'm, uh, I'm gonna give you your privacy," Kuz says, hastily grabbing his coat and his laptop and making a break for it.

Lip buries his face in the carpet and the world goes dark.

* * *

><p>There's an alarm going off.<p>

Lip bolts up in the darkness and starts slapping for the nightstand before he realizes he's on the floor and not the bed. And then he realizes it's his phone, not the alarm clock. And it's not a wake-up alarm, it's a schedule alarm, the kind Amanda set up to go off every time he has an upcoming exam.

Clumsily, Lip locates his phone and stares at it, trying to figure out through the fog what it's alerting him about and how to turn it off.

_Algebra Test_

Lip hasn't taken algebra since fifth grade. He continues to stare at the phone, wondering absurdly if this is some kind of fluke message from the past. Then it hits him. It's Carl's algebra test. Lip put all Carl's upcoming tests into his schedule app so he'd know in advance what nights to plan to help Carl study. Carl's got a test tomorrow. Fuck.

Lip manages to turn the notification off then he grabs his coat and shoes and he bolts. It's not until he's already on the el, shivering and heading south that he thinks to check the time. It's after seven o'clock. Lip frowns at his phone, looks up, looks back at it then tries to figure out where the hell the rest of today went. The last thing he remembers is skipping his lab and getting high with Kuz. If he's been asleep since then, that means Lip also missed his three o'clock class and his stats study group, not to mention all the homework he had on the schedule for tonight.

Lip kicks the empty seat in front of him and pounds his fist against his thigh until he feels a little better for hurting.

The temperature has dropped and he's forgotten his gloves so by the time Lip gets to the house his fingers have gone numb. He lopes up the front steps and pauses, confused.

There's a storm door over the front door.

"What the fuck?" Lip says, pulling it open with great disdain and letting himself in.

Fiona is sitting on the couch with Ian and Yevgeny while Liam is sprawled out on the floor watching _Monsters University_ for the eightieth time. Ian's holding Yevgeny and facing Fiona, doting and acting like it's his baby. Fiona is grinning at them both and acting like this is just hunky-dory.

"Hey!" Fiona greets Lip without taking her eyes off the baby, "Got a full house tonight! There's leftovers in the fridge, might still be warm. Lasagna."

"When the fuck did we get a storm door?" Lip asks as he takes off his coat and tosses it onto the pile on the pegs.

Fiona smiles and grabs one of Yevgeny's fists, making the baby squeal in delighted surprise. "Ian put that on," she says.

"Not bad for second hand, huh?" Ian says, "Should cut down on the heating bills some. Got my eye out for one for the back too."

"When did you become Bob Villa?" Lip asks.

Ian lifts Yevgeny up and onto his shoulders. "The guys in maintenance and custodial are all pretty handy," he says, "You learn a lot."

Ian grabs one of Yevgeny's feet and blows a raspberry on the bottom of it. Fiona and the baby both cackle with delight.

"Where's Carl?" Lip asks impatiently.

"In the kitchen," Fiona replies, gesturing toward it, "With Mickey."

Lip makes a face at this bit of information.

"You know he's got an algebra test tomorrow?" Lip asks, "Is anybody keeping track of this shit but me?"

"Yes," Fiona says with some offense, "Mickey's helpin' him study."

Lip snorts.

"He's been helping him for a couple weeks," Ian says, "Carl got a B on his last quiz."

"Probably 'cause _I_ was helpin' him before that," Lip says.

"Well, you haven't been around much," Fiona shrugs. She stretches her arms up at Yevgeny and starts making pincher hands at him.

Lip starts to reply to that, but Ian talks first.

"You really don't need to keep running back here all the time," Ian says, "We got it. Everything's under control."

Lip stares at him, but Ian doesn't take his attention off Yevgeny and Fiona.

"Really," Ian adds, "If they need anything, I'm right around the corner. I can take care of whatever comes up. You don't have to."

There are no words Lip can find to respond to this. Instead he says nothing and makes his way to the kitchen, wondering what the hell kind of game Ian thinks he's playing here.

Behind him he hears Fiona say to Ian, "Is it weird that I think he sorta looks like you? I swear he's got your ears."

Ian laughs. "Maybe it's like how people and their pets start to resemble each other."

In the kitchen, Mickey is indeed helping Carl study for his Algebra test, hunkered down with him over books and papers at the table.

Feeling confused and very much like the odd man out, Lip opens the fridge and takes out a beer.

"Hey, man," Mickey says, "Toss one of those my way."

Lip meets Mickey's eyes for a beat. Mickey raises his eyebrows. Lip takes out another beer and brings it over to him.

"Thanks," Mickey says. He turns to Carl and says to him, "Now, you remember that FOIL crap we talked about last week?"

"Yeah," Carl says, "I think so. First, Outer, Inner, Last?"

"See?" Mickey says, "You got this shit. So now, how does that work with this? Where do ya start?"

Lip doesn't stick around to hear anymore. This is all strange to the point that he's starting to wonder if it's some kind of a hallucination or if he's still dreaming. He bounds up the stairs to his old room, seeking anything that feels right and familiar.

As if they've set it up as a joke, though, Lip flips on the light in his room and finds his bed covered with boxes and bags of crap, like they've decided to start using his room as a storage closet.

"The fuck," Lip sighs.

He shoves some stuff out of the way, clearing a space on the edge of the bed and sits down. He cracks the window and lights up a cigarette. Down the hall he can hear Debbie on the phone, probably with her boyfriend. Lip tries to remember what her boyfriend's name is, that kid who came to dinner that one time, but then Lip gives up. He's not even sure if Debbie's still seeing that kid. No one tells Lip anything anymore.

Lip leans back on the bed, shoving a garbage bag full of what looks like old blankets out of the way. He stares up at the water-stained ceiling, the light fixture with two out of three bulbs still burnt out (they've been burnt out since Lip lived here—but why would anyone bother to replace them?) and thinks through what papers and projects he has coming up. Today has really fucked him over. Something's gonna have to give this week, but he's not sure what he can afford to blow off.

Lip sits up on his elbows and glances at his closet. It too is stuffed full of boxes and bags of unwanted things (have they completely forgotten that there's an attic _and_ a basement?), but there's something…He sits up fully and narrows his eyes. There's no way…

Lip is on his knees now at the closet, shoving a few things back so he can grab a hold of what he thinks is, what looks like, what…holy shit. It's Luther.

Slowly, Lip drags the doll by its leg out from under a pile of crap. Then Lip drops it like it's electrified.

Luther is missing an arm.

"Oh, shit," Lip whispers in revulsion, scooting back to sit hard on his heels.

After a second, Lip comes to his senses and appreciates the fact that there was no one around to witness him acting like a total freaked-out pussy. He doesn't get any closer to that doll though. Instead he sits with his back against the bed and continues to smoke while he stares at it, maintaining a safe distance.

Staring at Luther, Lip feels a strange kind of anxiety bubbling up in his stomach. It's not the anxiety of that dream, even with the freakish fact that the doll is now missing an arm for unknown reasons. It's not even something he can blame on the lingering grossness of his afternoon whiskey/pot combo. It's the anxiety Lip used to feel every day in kindergarten, knowing Ian was home alone with Frank with only this dumb doll to serve as protector.

Lip's thoughts are interrupted as Carl appears in the hall outside Lip's room.

"You still here?" Carl asks, leaning in the doorway.

"Not for much longer," Lip replies, "Don't really need me for what I came for."

"You mad?" Carl asks.

Lip shakes his head. "I'm not mad. He helpin' you?"

"Yeah," Carl admits, "He doesn't go as fast as you."

Lip smiles. "Okay. Lemme know if you get stuck on anything he can't do."

"You sure you're not mad?"

"Yeah." Lip feels slightly perturbed that Carl would think Lip was mad about something so petty as that. He nods toward Luther and asks, "You take the arm off that doll?"

Carl glances at it and looks smug. "Probably."

"Don't remember?"

Carl shrugs, "I've done a lot of shit in my day."

Then he turns to Lip and asks, "Who fucked you up?"

Lip has almost forgotten about his damaged face. It hurts all over again, now that he's thinking about it. "Some asshole," he replies.

"What'd you do?"

"Told him what I thought of him."

"He's good," Carl says, admiring Mickey's handiwork from one side of Lip's face to the other.

"How's football?" Lip asks, hoping to change the subject before Carl demands more details.

The enthusiasm fades from Carl's expression. "It's dumb," he says, "They never let me actually play."

"Takes time."

Carl scowls at this. "You sound like Ian."

This makes Lip smile. While he takes a last drag he has a good look at his brother. Carl seems taller and older every time Lip comes home, but he can already tell Carl is doomed to stall out at Frank and Lip size. He's built exactly like them. If Ian thinks that Carl is ever gonna get off the bench without further behind the scenes machinations, Ian's fooling himself. Lip is skeptical of how long this football thing is gonna last. He wouldn't put money on Carl making it to a second year.

And then what? Carl will have a lot more time on his hands and zero reason to bother trying to pass his classes. Lip's certain Ian didn't really think this plan through, just panicked at the idea of Carl joining the JROTC and jumped on the first alternative that presented itself. Thinking through long-term consequences has never been Ian's strong suit. If Ian had ever bothered to consult Lip about the plan, Lip could have easily pointed out the flaws.

Lip stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray on the windowsill still filled with the butts of his old cigarettes and asks, "You got any games coming up?"

"Don't bother," Carl sneers, "I never get off the bench."

"You never know," Lip says, "One or two kids gets cracked in the head right, concussed, paralyzed, whatever, that's your time to shine."

"That'd be awesome," Carl replies. Lip's fairly certain Carl is referring to witnessing a teammate get paralyzed on the field rather than the awesomeness of finally getting a chance to play. In any case, Lip is glad that Carl seems cheered up.

"Hey," Mickey calls from the bottom of the stairs, "I gotta go in ten minutes. We gonna do those last two practice problems or what?"

"Yeah," Carl hollers back. Then he gives Lip a sympathetic look and says, "Hope your face gets better."

"Yeah, thanks," Lip replies. As Carl starts to head back down, Lip says, "So you'll let me know about those games comin' up?"

"Don't worry about it," Carl says, "I don't care."

"Be nice to have some family support, right?"

"Eh," Carl says over his shoulder as he departs, "Ian's always there."

Of course he is.

Lip sits there for a moment longer, but Lip doesn't want to be here anymore tonight. There isn't any point anyway; nobody needs him. Nobody seems to give a flying fuck that he's here. If he wanted to feel so useless and lonely, he could've just stayed at school. At least then he could have the illusion that everyone at home missed him.

Lip climbs to his feet and gives Luther a swift kick, sending him back in the general direction of the closet. No more of this shit today.

When Lip heads down into the living room, he finds that Ian's apparently taken the baby home. Liam's passed out in front of the DVD menu, and Fiona's engrossed in texting someone. She doesn't look up or say anything as Lip heads out. If Lip felt like being logical, he'd think she just assumed he was heading out for a smoke, not actually leaving. Lip's in no mood to be logical, however. He moves Fiona up a spot on his shitlist for today.

The wind has picked up and Lip purposefully doesn't latch the storm door, allowing it to slam open and closed repeatedly. The sound is satisfying as he walks away.

* * *

><p>Kuz is apparently away for the night. Normally, Lip would be pleased to have the room to himself, but tonight it's just too damn quiet. He manages to get a little bit of work done, but his mind keeps straying from the page. He's tempted to head out to a bar and drown his sorrows, but he doesn't want to be with strangers tonight. He wants to feel smart and good at something and cared about and known.<p>

What he wants is to be back in his old room with his old brothers, the ones who looked up to him and liked him. Or maybe back with Mandy when she still adored him, back before Lip fucked that up. But Lip also doesn't want to be haunted by any more memories tonight. They always turn sour in his stomach.

So he does the best thing he can think of and heads over to Amanda's sorority house. The girls who answer the door seem pleased to see him, a little flirty like they always are, and this does wonders for Lip's mood. Such wonders are fleeting, though, already having fled to the hills by the time Lip makes his way up to Amanda's room.

He knocks on the door and knows he wouldn't blame her if she slammed the door in his face or had another guy or just told him to drop dead. He'd probably have done at least two out of three if their roles were reversed.

Amanda's face is stony and she holds the door mostly closed and asks, "What do you want?"

Lip wants to say he's sorry but he cannot for the life of him get the words out of his mouth. Instead he rests his head against the doorjamb, puts on his best Casanova expression and says, "Let me mow your lawn. Mow your carpet."

"You wanna munch my rug?"

"That's it."

Amanda rolls her eyes then holds open the door to let him pass. "Fine," she says, "But no falling asleep. That's worse than the battery dying on my vibrator."

"I'm better than a vibrator," Lip smiles, pleased to back in banter with her. This is a good sign.

"Nobody's better than a vibrator."

"Then why bother with me?"

"You bring a certain warmth and character. Also, I like having you at my feet."

He dumps his coat on her desk chair and says, "Your feet, huh?"

"Well, whatever."

She holds out her hand against his chest, keeping him at arm's length as he approaches her.

"First, though," she says, "There's a party at Sigma Lambda next week. I want you to be my arm candy."

"You're making me agree to terms before you'll _allow_ me to go down on you?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

"And I'm Skyping with my parents tomorrow. I want you to walk in on the middle of it, say some inappropriate shit. Act drunk, or something."

"No problem. I can do it Method style."

"Good. All right. Have at it."

Amanda shimmies out of her pajama shorts and panties and hops onto the bed, Lip following eagerly. It's warm and weirdly safe between her legs, the rest of the world dampened out a little. Lip likes the heat coming off of her and the soft, intimate scent of her pussy. He enjoys the way she tastes, and he enjoys the way he feels protected down here.

Lip never went down on Karen because she never asked him to, and it never occurred to him to volunteer. He did go down on Mandy a few times, but only to keep her happy, and it was never a pleasant experience for him—he always felt like he was under threat of being clobbered if he didn't flick his tongue fast enough or hard enough in the right places. Mandy wasn't great at communicating what she liked, but she was quite straightforward at communicating what she didn't.

But going down on Amanda is nice, even comforting somehow. Amanda is very attentive at guiding him, and Lip feels like he's actually good at it, or getting better. He enjoys working in small strokes to bring about involuntary quivering and gasping, loves when she grabs the sheets up in her fists. He feels a great sense of accomplishment when he gets her to scream and moan, ruffles the feathers of this metal mechanical mockingbird. Gifted and talented indeed.

When they have finished, he lays down beside her, waiting for her to offer up his reward, even if it's just inviting him into her nest for the night. He's so glad he doesn't have to sleep alone.

But she just looks at him.

"What?" he asks, sitting up on his elbow.

"Go home," she says, "You've made amends, but now I need to get back to work."

Lip knows he doesn't deserve any more than this, but he can't help but feel like the walls of the world are caving in on him as he throws his legs over the side of her bed and prepares to head back to that crappy, lonely dorm room. He reaches for his shoes like a man being forced to dress for his execution.

"Lip?"

He is surprised by the soft tone of her voice, and raises his head to find that she is looking at him with pity. He'll take pity. Pity works.

"You're so pathetic," she says, but it sounds gentle, maybe even a little charmed.

She puts her hand to the side of his face as he gives her a half-smile, and she kisses his Mickey wounds lightly.

"Come on," she says, inclining her head toward the bed, inviting him to stay.

Lip undresses quickly, slides under the covers as Amanda switches out the light.

In the darkness she spoons him, one arm around his chest. With her other hand, she runs her fingers through his hair, her breath soft and warm against his cheek. Lip feels good and safe for a while as he drifts off.


	5. Algernons Anonymous

Lip is hungover. He's been hungover every morning for the better part of the past week, so this is nothing new, just the same familiar shitty feeling once the sleep pulls away from him like low tide, leaving his water-logged brain exposed.

He's been playing catch-up, robbing Peter to feed Paul or selling Peter to pay Paul or whatever the hell it is you do to Peter when Paul comes knocking for his due. But there's far too much to conceivably catch up on with only 24 hours in a day and more assignments, quizzes, projects, papers, labs, and tests constantly shooting down the pike. So Lip's fallen into crisis mode, pushing off things and tossing some to the side in order to complete whatever's most immediate and hopefully most important. He hates existing like this; it's exhausting on every level. And yet when the time comes to sleep, he's too wired and wound up and can't get his brain to shut up. So, whiskey it is. It's become the only reliable way to knock himself out.

But he can't figure out how to stop having dreams, all those bad, fucked-up dreams, and in the morning he keeps waking up next to memories he doesn't remember inviting into his bed.

This morning it's Little League. That double. The only double Lip ever hit in his admittedly short career. He was never an athlete. Not clumsy and uncoordinated, or whatever, nothing too embarrassing, but Lip wasn't ever particularly talented in that regard. It wouldn't have been so bad except that he and Ian were on the same team, and Ian actually _was _talented.

Ian was as big of a star as you could be on that crappy underfunded local team, a big fish in a rain puddle. Unlike the other kids, Ian somehow managed to look like a miniature professional in his polyester uniform and worn-out Goodwill cleats. For all his gangliness, he was graceful. And strong. He hit doubles all the time.

That day that Lip got his double, though, Ian's game had been off. He'd hit a couple fouls, which he never did, and struck out, which he really never did. Then he'd fumbled when a ball went straight to him in the outfield, allowing two runners to get home safe before Ian finally recovered the ball and got it back to the second baseman. Ian's day was a disaster, and Lip didn't get why until he saw Frank in the stands sitting next to Fiona and Monica.

But Lip didn't understand why Frank's presence—the first time he'd ever come to one of their games—should throw Ian for such a loop. Normal Frank, sure; if he was there, the both of them would be dying of embarrassment and shame, but this was New Frank. Dad had stopped drinking, hadn't touched a drop in over a week, and the change was incredible. He was full of energy, talkative, engaged, _interested_ in them. The night before he'd spent two hours talking with Lip about his science project—Lip had been surprised and honestly excited to find that Frank knew a few things. It had been such a nice change to sit in their house and talk to an actual adult who wasn't a crazy idiot like Monica or drunk or high like all the other adults who passed through that house usually were.

Ian had been moody all through Frank's first week of sobriety, like he was annoyed at having Frank around so much. Lip supposed he couldn't blame Ian for that—Frank doted on the other kids, but mostly ignored Ian like he always had. Lip figured that Ian was jealous. But surely Ian would come around. New Frank was rapidly becoming Lip's favorite person. Ian would have to warm to him eventually, especially once Frank started working for real, bringing home money, buying them things, coming to school nights, coming to games…

"Good luck," Ian said as Lip went up to bat. Ian's face looked grim, though, and Lip could see his brother's frustration under the brim of his cap.

As Lip trotted from the batting cage up to home plate, he glanced into the bleachers. Frank was bouncing Debbie on his knee and waved to him. Lip felt energized like he never had before. He felt like a goddamned athlete as he took up the bat and straightened his cap. In his mind, he moved like Ian always moved, swinging that bat with confident ease in perfect form. And when the ball connected with a satisfying crack, it was almost as if Lip knew it would happen.

Lip ran like he had never run before, pounding onto first base, charging on with exhilaration toward second. The coach waved at him to stop once Lip hit second and he did, panting and grinning. He looked first to the batting cage where he could see Ian holding both thumbs up in the air. Lip wiped the sweat from underneath his cap with the back of his hand and looked to the stands. Frank was losing his shit. For one second of terror, Lip thought Frank was angry or drunk again, the way he was moving. But then Lip realized that Frank was excited and cheering. Frank was proud.

Lip didn't make it to home plate that inning—the kids after him both struck out and they'd already had an out from the boy who batted before Lip. There was only one more inning after that and their team lost, Ian playing just as badly as he had earlier. It didn't matter, though—Lip was elated.

As the players left the field to meet up with their families, Frank greeted Lip with a bear hug.

"You are some athlete," Frank told him, keeping his arm around Lip as they walked toward home, "Told everyone in the stands, 'that's my son.' Never been so proud."

Lip couldn't speak, just smiled in pleasure, soaking up the attention.

Then things got even better when Monica suggested they go out for pizza. Normally, this would've been just another airhead Monica idea they all knew couldn't be followed up on, but that day Frank agreed wholeheartedly, startling the kids.

"Can we afford it?" Fiona asked, "Pizza's expensive." Lip could almost see her calculating the month's bills in her head.

"Dine and dash?" Ian muttered without enthusiasm.

"I'm a sober man now," Frank assured them, "I've got plenty of money. It's incredible, the money you save when you stay home thinkin' instead of going out and drinkin'."

Then he laughed and added, "I'll be damn near wealthy soon. Don't tell Uncle Sam or he'll be coming for his cut."

So they'd gone to dinner like a family in a Pizza Hut commercial, and if anyone had asked Lip then, he would've said it was the best day of his life. He and Ian and Frank split a pizza while Monica, Fiona, and the babies shared another. Ian had even seemed to cheer up a little, he and Lip shooting wadded up bits of napkin at each other through their straws. Ian laughing pretty much secured the perfection of the day for Lip.

Frank leaned over to Ian and pointed a thumb at Lip as he said, "Watch how he plays and you'll really learn something. He's got the family talent."

Ian's smile faded, but Fiona, who'd been keeping a careful eye on Frank, was quick to speak up.

"Ian's really good," Fiona told Frank, "Just had an off day."

"Ah, you crack under pressure," Frank said to Ian, "Your mother's like that too. The second she knows someone's watching her—" he mimicked a bomb exploding between his hands, "—goes to pieces. Walking disaster."

"Frank," Monica protested as she struggled with Carl and Debbie. Fiona kept a wary eye on her, clearly trying hard not to intervene.

Frank glanced over at Monica and, perhaps feeling bad about his statement (New Frank felt bad about things), he reached for Carl and wordlessly took him to the bathroom for a change. New Frank took care of his kids.

While Frank was gone, Monica still grappling not terribly successfully with Debbie, Lip took his eyes off her and looked back at Ian warily. Frank and Ian had long co-existed with a cold indifference to each other that occasionally erupted into violence on Frank's part but seldom anything else. So it wasn't surprising that New Frank and Ian would be a little rocky in warming to each other. If Ian could just open his mind to the possibilities, though, Lip thought, stop being so stubborn, he'd see that this could work really well for him too.

As if reading Lip's mind, Ian leaned across the table and hissed to Lip, careful that Monica didn't hear, "He's still the same shit he was before."

"You're just jealous," Lip hissed back, "Because he doesn't like you."

"Why are you being so dumb?" Ian whispered, "You know how he is."

"You don't know that," Lip replied, "You don't know anything."

"Yeah," Ian said, glaring into his Sprite, "And you're Mark McGwire."

"Stop being such a baby," Lip chastised him, "Just because you played crappy."

Ian fixed his glare on Lip then and kicked the table, drawing Monica's exasperated attention and finally causing Fiona to intercede.

"Enough," Fiona said, "Both of you. Stop."

"You're an idiot," Lip said, plunging his straw into his Fanta and looking away.

"It's all right, Ian," Fiona said in commiseration, "It'll happen soon enough."

She'd said that in a low whisper meant for Lip not to hear from his side of the table, but he'd heard it anyway, and he ignored it. For years Lip had felt that New Frank existed inside of his father; all Frank had to do was give up the drinking. And now he had. Who cared if it was a stupid bet at the bar that prompted it? Means to an end. But Ian's skepticism and Fiona's support of that enraged Lip. What Lip had desired for years had finally happened, and they were shitting all over it.

Lip continued ignoring the both of them the rest of the evening, stayed up late into the night enjoying Frank's praise and attention, sharing his school projects with him, showing off his honor roll certificates and science fair prizes and gifted program commendations, all saved carefully in a box under the bed, as if Lip had known all these years that this day would come.

In the morning, Frank and Monica were nowhere to be found. Ian and Fiona were maddeningly nonchalant about this, going about the normal business of taking care of Carl and Debbie, getting ready for school. Lip said not a word to them, packed his lunch and left on his own. After school Lip walked up and down the streets of the neighborhood in search of Frank. He checked the job center, the church, the clinic, the police station, the Laundromat, K-mart, Jewel, and even the library. He didn't check the bars or the pool halls or any of the houses or alleys where Frank and Monica could usually be found. Lip couldn't bear to.

As the sun set, Lip headed home reluctantly, but he paid little attention to the dinner Fiona served or to his homework, thoughts occupied by the whereabouts of his father. Maybe Frank had gone out to find a job and Monica had gone with to support him. Maybe Frank had taken Monica to the clinic, having talked her into going back on her meds. Maybe they had just decided to take a spur-of-the-moment Metra ride to the suburbs to visit Monica's mother and forgotten to leave a note, forgotten to take the kids. Maybe they were going to come in the door any minute with some kind of big surprise: a puppy, a car, bikes for everybody. When they were in good moods, they sometimes did stuff like that. Surely New Frank loved that kind of business just as much as happy high Frank had.

But when Frank and Monica finally made it back home, there were no jobs or puppies or new and improved parents. They stumbled in, falling down drunk. Frank was puking before he even made it into the bathroom.

"Frank won the bet!" Monica laughed, slumping onto the sofa, "We're bringing the celebration home! What's fun without family?"

Lip didn't stay to watch the unfolding disaster. He abandoned his homework and marched upstairs without a word.

Ian found him in his bed a little while later. Lip kept his head under the covers so Ian wouldn't know that he'd been crying.

"What do you want?" Lip demanded.

Ian was quiet a moment, then he said, "I still got some pellets for that air rifle. Wanna go to the paint factory and shoot out windows?"

"No."

"Wanna sneak into the movies?"

"Go away."

Ian didn't say anything for a while after that, but Lip could still feel his presence through the blanket.

Eventually, Ian put his hand on Lip's back, leaned over him, and whispered, "He still likes you. At least you have that."

Lip gave no reply to Ian, resented him even for trying to make Lip see some kind of a bright side when clearly there was none to be had. Instead Lip waited him out, waited until Ian gave up and went to bed. Then Lip lowered the damp blanket from his face and fixed his eyes on the wall. From downstairs he could still hear the racket of Frank and Monica wreaking havoc, Fiona struggling to corral them, protesting and suggesting in that useless way she had that worked so well on the kids but never worked as well on her parents. They bulldozed her. Lip could tell it was happening again, just like always. Something tipped over and broke—a lamp, perhaps, something shatterable—and that would be the point normally when Lip would go down to help. But this night he couldn't bring himself to. He laid still, feigning sleep until the ruckus woke Carl from his crib, and still Lip pretended he was dead to it all. He wished he was.

Ian got up to soothe Carl back to sleep, the job he always took on while Lip and Fiona dealt with the adults. Then Debbie cried out from her bedroom down the hall and Lip held his breath. He could feel Ian waiting to see if Lip would get up and do his part. But still Lip didn't move. His heart felt like cast iron, anchoring him to the bed, the pictures taped to the wall growing blurry before his eyes.

Ian sighed pointedly and, hauling Carl with him, trudged down the hall to tend to Debbie.

Alone at last, Lip made a vow in the bedroom that night that he would never again trust anyone to care about him. He'd never again be caught naïve. That was worse, almost, than being hurt at all. Hope was dangerous. Never again was he going to mess with it.

Lip blinks into the sunlight now, head still pounding from the hangover and the not great sleep. Kuz is snoring and Lip can sense his alarm clock is going to go off in a few minutes. He rolls over and squints up at the wall schedule. Amanda's been taking a more hands-off approach to Lip's studies lately, and he's only now realizing just how much he's come to rely on her to keep him on track. Things seem to keep veering dangerously close to going on the rails, like he's one little oversight away from disaster. It feels like being Fiona, living from one breath to the next. And Lip detests feeling like Fiona; he's supposed to have his shit together better than that.

He sighs, thinking about his sister. He's got to call her today, can't put it off any longer. They've got to talk about the tax bill.

The fucking tax bill. It still makes Lip furious, his fist tightening around the corner of his pillow as he contemplates it. Another patented Fiona Gallagher Great Decision. Back when she was first out on bail, the rent had come due with no money anywhere to speak of. Patrick had come breathing down her neck and Fiona, in the state that she was in then, had bought him off (and bought some time) saying she'd pay a late fee and have it all the next week. That hadn't happened, of course; Fiona'd had even less that next week: no job, no money, no brothers beside her. Desperate not to lose the house on top of everything else, she'd made a wild agreement to pay that year's property taxes, due in November. Lip could see her cornered thinking—November seemed like ages away, surely she'd be better off by then, surely she could pay that taxes and the back rent and no one would ever be the wiser that Fiona had made one more deal with the devil. It was Fiona-style thinking through and through, betting on a better tomorrow and crossing her fingers.

Fiona's voice had wavered as she told Lip about this months later, and his frustration toward her had been tempered at the memory of how he'd let her drown last winter, left her in charge of shit she was in no shape to be in charge of. Now they're stuck trying to find another $2000 for the tax bill and they're almost worse off than they were back when Fiona was just desperately dodging Patrick—back then at least they'd been able to believe in the illusion that Fiona could find work paying what she was used to getting.

Now November has come and that tax bill is clipped to the Gallagher fridge, both innocuous and ominous.

All the money Lip got from Amanda's parents had been swallowed into the abyss of past due bills and rent and groceries and Liam's follow-up care since Lip had insisted on real doctors, not clinic morons. It was truly astonishing how quickly everything had gone to shit when Fiona and Lip and Ian had all simultaneously decided it was time to fuck-off last winter—Fiona's the one still dealing with the fall-out, and Lip does feel guilty about that. He's been wracking his brains to figure out how to help, how to get this stupid tax bill off her shoulders at least, but he's at a loss—his work-study job barely covers his books and fees and what basically amounts to beer money. He's got no time for any other kind of job, and the well seems to have gone dry on schemes. Lip can't seem to think of a damn idea these days and that frightens him more than any of it—if his brain is too bogged down in theorems and formulas and college nonsense, what the hell have they got to count on?

The Squirrel Fund money from the summer was almost entirely eaten up by the furnace fiasco in September. They're back to day to day, hand to mouth, and Fiona still can't find steady work. All she has is the waitressing gig at the pie place and that's barely covering groceries and most of the rent. Without Debbie and Carl's after school jobs and whatever random bits Fiona begs off of Lip and Ian, there wouldn't be any house or heat or water. The felony and the neighborhood notoriety of what she'd done to Liam have affected Fiona's prospects for paid work more than even cynical Lip predicted they would. It was amazing the kind of shit jobs you could actually be denied—jobs literally dealing with shit (dog shit, baby shit, industrial vats of pig shit)—Fiona is no longer considered good enough for any of them. Lip knows that's got to be getting to her, all her big, brave smiles aside.

And still that fucking tax bill is looming.

The alarm goes off. Lip slaps the clock harder than necessary and crawls reluctantly out of bed to start another goddamn day.

* * *

><p>After lunch, Lip decides to take twenty minutes and get this call to Fiona over with. He's got to get to the library and start work on his research paper, but he knows he won't be able to concentrate until they set up a time at least to brainstorm ideas about how to pay the tax bill. He wants to sit down with her, go over all the other due bills, go over whatever's left in the squirrel fund. Lip needs to have a better picture of what they're dealing with. He wants to hope that it's not as bad as he thinks it will be, but he's keeping that optimism carefully off-limits.<p>

He grabs a coffee to-go before he leaves his shift at the cafeteria, peeling his hairnet off as he heads outside. He locates a fairly secluded concrete bench around the side of the building and sets to work on Irishing up his coffee before he calls Fiona. He has a feeling he's going to need the reinforcement.

Glancing out over the muddy, November-dead foliage of campus, Lip returns his flask to his interior coat pocket and trades it for his phone. He takes a big gulp of coffee and dials.

"What?" Fiona snaps as she answers the phone.

Lip hesitates, surprised by this greeting. "Uh…everything okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," she sighs, still audibly irritated, "_Yes_. Everything's _fine_. Same as ever."

"Whatcha doin'?"

"Tryin' to—never mind. It's not important." Fiona's voice audibly shifts into one of her everything-is-fine smiles, "How's college?"

"It's…you know. Busy."

"You holdin' up?"

Lip feels so tired as she asks him this. "Yeah," he says after a second, "It's cool."

"Well, if there's anything I can do," Fiona says, voice sounding distracted again, "Just let me know."

Lip smiles to himself, trying to imagine what Fiona could possibly do to help him. He's traveled past the time when Fiona setting a plate of eggs down in front of him or tossing in his clothes with hers in the washer could be a help. Nowadays Fiona's just another responsibility.

He opens his mouth to bring up the tax bill, but she interrupts him before he gets a chance to speak.

"Debbie didn't come home until three in the morning last night," Fiona blurts out.

"What? What the hell?"

"She claims she and Joaquin fell asleep watching TV in his basement."

"Bullshit."

"I know."

"Fuck."

"I know."

Lip grinds his teeth and glares at the pile of cigarette butts around the base of the bench. He is not going to have this to deal with on top of everything else. Not Debbie. No no no no no fucking way.

"This is not happening," he says firmly.

"I know."

"You can't just let this slide, Fiona. Debbie's—"

"I chewed her out about it last night, don't worry."

"That's not good enough."

"Oh, really," Fiona scoffs, "Just what exactly do you want me to do?"

"Stop her. Jesus."

"How? I'm workin' nights. I can't be her warden. I just have to trust her."

"She's fourteen! You can't trust her."

"It's Debbie."

"Yeah and it's Debbie on teenage hormones, all right? Trust goes out the window. Think about what you were doing at fourteen."

Fiona snorts, "I was raisin' four kids. Tryin' to get mom off meth."

"Fine. Think about what _I _was doin' at fourteen."

"Do I even want to know what you were doin' at fourteen?"

"No. You don't. That's my point."

Fiona sighs. "I can't chain her to the house."

Lip gazes skyward and takes a deep drag. There is no stopping any of this. It has begun.

"Fuck," he mutters.

"I know."

He closes his eyes and asks, "Do we even know what Carl's getting up to at night?"

"Workin' with me, mostly."

"Right," Lip says. At least that's something. Thank god for Carl's busboy gig. Then it occurs to him, "Who's watchin' Liam?"

"Debbie."

"So, where was Liam last night?"

"Out with Debbie. She takes him with her."

Lip is quiet for a moment before he dares ask, "So, you're telling me Liam got home at three in the morning last night too? _Liam_ was out carousing until three o'clock in the fuckin' morning? _Jesus Christ_, Fiona. What the hell is going on in that house? You used to have your shit together."

"I used to have help!" Fiona snaps, but Lip can hear that the anger in her voice is tinged with pain. Her distress becomes more readily apparent as she rambles on defensively, "I used to have you and Ian all the time helpin' me. And Debbie. She wasn't always talkin' back and _fightin'_ with me like she does now. I had Jimmy. I had V and Kev. I didn't have to share them with three other babies. I never even see them anymore now. I never see anyone. 'Cause I'm all alone here, and I can't even get a fuckin' job that covers the rent, all right? I'm tryin', Lip, I really am. But I can't keep this job and be here twenty-four hours a day, okay? And I can't afford to lose this job 'cause God knows how I'll get another one. Just lay off with the saintly brother lectures, all right? I don't need it from both of you. I am more than aware that I'm doin' a piss-poor job…"

She trails off and Lip's afraid that she might be crying. Shit.

"You're right," he says, careful to modulate his tone to sound a little nicer and to reel her back to the shore of sanity. He can't take Fiona losing it on top of everything else right now. "You're in a shitty position and you can't do everything. I'm sorry. Okay? I'm sorry. Debs's growing up. It's not your fault. I'll talk to her."

"No, no," Fiona says, having regained her composure, "She'll think I'm talkin' bout her behind her back. Then she'll really be pissed. Just let me handle it. It'll be okay. I shouldn't have told you."

"No," Lip says right back, "You should tell me. Don't go not tellin' me shit. I need to know what's goin' on."

"Why?" Fiona sniffs cynically, "So you can keep an eye on me? Make sure I don't fuck up again?"

Lip breathes through his teeth in frustration, but then keeps careful watch on his tone once more as he says, "No. I just want to know what's going on. I don't like being in the dark. Like the tax bill, right? You can't just spring this crap on me months down the road. I need time to figure out solutions."

"Oh," Fiona says, sounding falsely nonchalant, "Don't worry about the tax bill."

"Why? Patrick change his mind?" Lip asks this even though he knows it isn't likely. Fiona is clearly trying to hide something. "He decide to pay the bill himself?"

"Sort of," she replies brightly. But she leaves it at that, obviously hoping Lip will just be a moron and accept this.

"What the hell does 'sort of' mean? How do you sort of pay a tax bill?"

Fiona is quiet and Lip can almost hear her running through different possible answers, trying to figure out which one will make him the least upset. This pause and process, however, is making Lip even more upset. Then she answers finally.

"Ian paid it."

"What?"

"Ian paid the bill. It's done now. Off our backs. He talked to Patrick too. Told him that was it, time to leave us alone."

"Ian paid a $2,000 tax bill."

Fiona hesitates then she just murmurs in the affirmative, "Mmm-hmm."

"How?"

"I guess he had it. I went with him to get the cash turned into a money order. Saw it myself."

"Where the fuck is he getting all this money from?"

When Fiona answers, she's dropped the obfuscating act and sounds just as worried as Lip feels. "I don't know."

"Did you ask him?"

"Kinda afraid to? I don't need Ian pissed off at me too."

"Shit," Lip sighs. One problem replaces another. That's what always happens when he deals with home.

Fiona offers up a possibility, saying, "I think Mickey might be sellin' drugs again on the side to help out."

Lip snorts. "Oh, you mean you think he ever stopped?"

"Didn't he? I thought he was just doin' the rub 'n tug now."

"Really?" Lip asks, "We gonna be that naïve now? I can't even list all the illegal shit Mickey's got goin' down in that house. One raid. One raid and Ian's in jail too. Accessory and all that."

Fiona is quiet as she processes this bit of information then she tries to turn that sick feeling Lip's all too familiar with into a joke. "Well, at least since they're married, they can't testify against each other if it comes down to it. That's somethin'."

Lip takes a sip from his coffee and swallows hard, the whiskey burning his throat in a satisfying fashion.

"That why you're bein' so nice to Mickey? You think he's been helpin' you out?" He asks.

"What? No. I'm nice to Mickey 'cause he's my brother-in-law. He's been good to Ian. Been good to Carl and Debbie. Besides—Ian's crazy about him."

"Yeah, for how long?" Lip replies peevishly.

"Lip, they're married. That's not goin' anywhere."

"Temporary insanity," Lip says, taking another dramatic sip from his coffee then switching back to his cigarette. "You think that's even gonna last a year?" he adds.

Fiona starts to say something but stops herself. Lip grins, picturing her putting up her hands in defeat as she sets the topic aside. She's not gonna argue with him. Probably because she knows he's right.

Then Fiona moves away from the topic of Mickey and the marriage, back to Ian's mysterious cash flow.

"Maybe Ian's just makin' better money than we thought," she says.

"Nope," Lip says, "No way. I've seen what he makes. State university—salaries are public record. He's makin' peanuts. Less taxes, union dues, insurance, all the out-of-pocket expenses for his treatment…He's still seeing those fancy doctors up at Northwestern Memorial, right? Even if Jimmy's dad arranged some sort of sweet discount for him up there, he's still gotta be payin' something. Not to mention, floatin' all those lowlifes over at House Milkovich. Diapers and clean needles ain't cheap."

Lip stubs out his cigarette and rubs his eyes while he waits for Fiona to come up with her next Pollyanna possibility. The temperature is dropping and Lip can feel his research paper being carried off on the bitter wind.

"Maybe he got some money with that award," Fiona says at last.

Lip pauses, his coffee cup midway to his mouth. "What award?"

"The one the University gave him? He must've told you about it. He's startin' a couple classes in January."

Lip just stares at his coffee cup, letting this sink in. That little motherfucker. Ian decided to take the award after all of that and then didn't even bother to tell Lip. Somehow, Lip finds himself smiling.

"Lip?" Fiona questions after he's been quiet too long, "He told you, right? It's a really big deal. Guess they really wanna help promote him. See somethin' in him, you know? It's nice."

"No," Lip says, shaking his head even though she can't see him, "There's no cash award with that. It's just about classes and books and stuff."

"Oh."

Lip toys with his coffee cup as he waits for Fiona's next idea. Somehow it's become her responsibility to offer up an explanation for Ian being Mr. Moneybags. Maybe because she seems to have been the main recipient. Lip surely doesn't remember seeing any signs of extra income over at the Milkovich house. Even Yevgeny's baby shit is all Liam's old stuff; Lip recognized that right away. And this annoys him. He doesn't like seeing stuff that belongs to the Gallaghers over at the Milkoviches', and he doesn't like that Ian's butting in so much over at the Gallagher house. Those two worlds are supposed to be kept separate. Ian made his choice. He doesn't get to have everything.

"You know," Fiona says, thinking through the idea as she speaks, "Debbie did say that Ian wasn't home a couple times when she tried goin' over to see him in the evening. Maybe he's got a second job?"

Lip sips his coffee and considers this option. "That actually sounds plausible," he says, "Must pay pretty well, though."

"Listen," Fiona says, "I gotta get goin'. Got a meeting I need to get to."

"Carl been actin' up again?"

"No, not school. NA meeting."

"Right."

"Talk later?"

"Yeah."

Just before Fiona can end the call, though, Lip says, "Fiona?"

"Yeah?"

"Sorry for givin' you a hard time. You know, about Debbie."

Fiona laughs, "What's with you two lately? Ian gave me a big speech—well, big speech for Ian—thankin' me for takin' care of you guys growin' up. I think spendin' so much time with Yevgeny's makin' him sentimental."

Lip briefly considers telling Fiona about that night with Ian when they put up the tile, what Ian had said to Lip about Yevgeny and babies. Lip wants Fiona to know so she will commiserate, so she can take some of the sadness of what Ian had said off of Lip's heart.

But Lip can't quite bear to bring it up, so instead he volunteers again, "I can talk to Debbie. Carl too, if you want. I'll set 'em straight. Tell 'em they better start givin' you an easier time."

"Nah," Fiona dismisses this offer, "Really, don't worry about it. We're fine here. You just stay put and keep killin' them up there at college, okay? Keep knockin' all those papers and book reports out of the park."

Lip's stomach sinks a little, but he can't resist remarking, "Book reports?"

"You don't do book reports in college?"

"I haven't done a book report since the second grade."

Fiona laughs. "Yeah, well, that's why you're up there and I'm down here. Anyway, I really gotta go."

"Yeah, all right. Have a good meeting."

"Oh, the best, I'm sure. All right. Bye, Lip."

"Bye."

Lip sets his phone on the bench and finishes off the rest of his coffee. That does a little to numb the empty feeling the call has left him with. He's relieved to have the tax bill off his Things To Worry About list, but somehow even with that item struck off, the list has still grown. And, despite his annoyance about everything, Lip finds himself fighting the urge to hop a train and head down there, put everything to rights at the house. He doesn't even know what he could do, but he still has a nagging need to do something. But Fiona said to stay where he is. Keep knocking it out of the park. Like Lip's just hitting doubles every time. At this point in the semester he's just hoping to get hit with the ball and walked to First.

But there is one bright spot, one thing that's actually worked: Lip finally got through to Ian about taking that award. Lip knew his persistence and reason would pay off. At least that's something Lip's been able to fix. He was starting to worry his game had fallen completely off.

He glances at the time on his phone and decides he can blow off working on his paper a little longer. He's feeling oddly giddy thinking about Ian, pleased like he hasn't felt in a long while, and he doesn't want to let that squelch out under stacks of musty books and the weight of mid-semester library silence.

He grabs his stuff and bounces a little on his feet as he makes his way over toward the Physics Building where he knows Ian should be at work somewhere. It's a newer building with a large open atrium space in the middle, flooding the interior with light even on an overcast day like today. The classrooms, labs and offices run the length of the atrium on two sides with green glass walkways connecting the two halls periodically. Everything is glass practically and it's easy to see to the expanse of an entire floor with one glance.

Lip climbs the stairs, pausing on each landing for a look and finally spots Ian on the fourth floor. Lip's on one side of the atrium, Ian on the other, but Ian's got his back to Lip and doesn't see him.

Lip pauses and takes the opportunity to watch his brother a moment. Ian's collecting discarded coffee cups and candy wrappers in a lounge area, working with easy grace and rhythm. Usually, the sight of Ian in the green uniform depresses Lip, as if he can see Ian growing stooped and old in it, one of those pathetic, ancient workers that people look away from out of pity, pushing his mop faithfully until the day he has a heart attack over it in some empty public washroom, and no one finds his body for hours.

Today, though, that uniform means something different. It's gotten Ian a ticket to something better. With Lip's help it won't be long until Ian's moved up to some dumb office job on campus and traded that olive drab shirt and pants for khakis and a Polytech polo. He won't be getting handyman tips from the guys he works with; he'll be playing golf. Lip smiles as he envisions it. Ian's gonna look exactly like fucking Clayton. God, he'll rent some condo in Uptown or something, share it with a couple of other gay guys with office jobs, start drinking wine, talking about whatever the fuck it is that gay guys talk about when they're in groups together, art or some shit…he'll be all right. That's a safe kind of life, the kind that could cushion him from everything else. And it's possible. Lip has made Ian see that now, dragged him one important step closer to achieving it.

Then Lip frowns as he sees Ian pick up the same paper coffee cup and immediately drop it twice in a row. Ian squats down to pick it up a third time and drops it again. Still squatting, Ian leans forward, rests his forehead against the side of his cart and closes his eyes in frustration.

"Hey," Lip calls out, crossing the walkway now and heading toward him.

Ian jerks to attention and does not look happy to see him. He stands up as Lip reaches the lounge.

"What do you want?" Ian asks, busying himself with the cart, coffee cup still on its side near his feet, ignored but not at all forgotten.

As he comes up to him, Lip can see that Ian's hands are trembling terribly. Ian catches Lip looking at them, shoves his hands in his pockets and repeats firmly, "What do you want?"

"You okay?"

"You smell like Frank."

Lip shrugs at this and says, "You can't write a 14 page paper on postwar globalization sober."

Lip bends down and picks up the discarded cup, tosses it into the waste receptacle on Ian's cart. This seems to piss Ian off for some reason, judging by the way he narrows his eyes.

"I gotta keep working," Ian says.

"Hey, don't let me stop you," Lip replies, holding up his hands in surrender.

Ian stands there, as if he's waiting for Lip to leave. Then Lip gets it.

"You know what?" Lip says brightly, "Let me help."

He walks over to one of the modular sofas, picks up a Twix wrapper and a pile of spine shreds torn from somebody's spiral notebook.

"No," Ian protests, "Don't."

"Eh," Lip says, grabbing a discarded packet of Orbit gum from under the sofa, "It's no problem. You got a rag? Looks like somebody spilled some pop on the floor here."

"Stop. Please."

"Hey, it's no big deal."

"I don't need you to do my fucking job for me, okay?" Ian stomps over and takes the trash from Lip. A trail of the spiral notebook shreds floats down from his hands as he shakily dumps the trash in his receptacle.

Lip stops himself from picking up the paper. He waits to see if Ian's going to try and do it, but Ian ignores the mess. He just stands at his cart with his hands in his pockets again and looks exhausted.

"Will you sit down a sec?" Lip asks. What he'd really like to do is wrap Ian up in a blanket and send him to bed for twelve hours, but this is the next best option he can think of at the moment.

"I'm working."

"You can sit down for two seconds. There's not even anyone here."

Ian sits sulkily, folding his arms across his chest and keeping his hands hidden. Lip stops himself from rolling his eyes as he takes a seat beside him.

"So, you, uh, finally listened to something I said, huh?" Lip says with a smile.

Ian gives him a blank look.

"The school thing," Lip clarifies, "Fiona said you're doin' it."

Ian closes his eyes and sinks a little into the sofa, giving off the impression that he would drop right to sleep if he could.

"I'm only doing it to make Mickey happy," he says.

"Right," Lip says. Of course. He feels exhausted himself now.

"Well," Lip adds, trying not to show his disappointment, trying to keep an encouraging spin on things because it doesn't matter who got through Ian's thick head, "I think it's gonna be good. Says something too, that they picked you, right? You should…you know, you should be proud."

Ian opens his eyes again and smiles bitterly. "It's a fucking pity prize. They pick out some dumb shit on staff every year they feel sorry for and pat themselves on the back for sending him to a couple classes. Just so they can say they're lifting pathetic dumb fucks like me out of the gutter and giving them an _education_. Makes them feel like they're doing something besides just catering to rich pricks who go here and hiring rich pricks to work in the administration. I'm just one of those Feed the Children kids in Africa."

Lip sits back, surprised by the speech and impressed by this analysis.

"Yeah, but so what?" Lip says, "Who cares why they're doing it? Take the money and run, man."

"Yeah. Money," Ian says, shaking his head, "How 'bout they just actually pay me more, huh? Instead I gotta do all this extra work for years just to have the _chance_ to make more money."

"That's kinda how higher education works. What the fuck you think I'm doin'?"

"At least your ride's based on being smart. I'm a charity case. You're a good investment."

The guilt feels like it's tightening around Lip's throat, but he pushes it down and says, "Well, they must've seen something in you. I mean, they had a lot of people they could've picked, right?"

Ian doesn't give any response to this. He appears to have blown all his energy on his rant, and now he's just back to looking tired. Then he takes his hands from under his arms and holds them out, palms up. They're still shaking.

"Look at this shit," he says.

"That's normal," Lip says, "Side effect. I read about it."

"Yup. Normal."

They both sit there observing his hands, and Lip doesn't know what to say. He wants to offer up some answer that will fix everything, like how he could always fix the laptop when it froze up or could give Ian the trigonometry formulas he needed or mod the DVD player to play the crappy burned movies Ian swiped off the guy selling them outside the Mexican grocery. But Lip is tapped out of ideas. He doesn't know how to fix this.

The best thing Lip can come up with to say is, "It's a trade-off."

They both know this is an unhelpful thing to say. Ian drops his hands and stands up.

"I gotta get back to work," he says.

Lip watches Ian stoop to pick up the paper, scoop it awkwardly with both hands and dump it in his trash receptacle. He grasps the handle of his cart tightly and begins pushing it down the hall.

"I'll see ya," he says over his shoulder.

There's still some trash in the lounge, but Lip's pretty sure he doesn't have to point that out. Ian's not concerned about it now. Ian just wants to get away from him. Ian probably wants to get away from everybody.

Lip remains in the lounge after Ian has shoved off, listening to the rattle of the cart and its supplies as it bumps over each seam in the granite tile floor. He takes out his phone to check the time but only ends up staring at it, putting it away, then immediately taking it back out when he realizes he never actually processed what time the clock said.

He can still go to the library, get in some work on that research paper. Some work is better than none. There's that sorority party he promised Amanda he'd attend with her, and he'll have to wrap things up early enough to do that. But there's still time to be productive. He just needs to get off his ass and force himself to go to the library.

Instead, he swipes open his phone and calls Amanda.

"You free?" he asks when she picks up.

"More or less. Why?"

"Wanna get a drink and fuck before the party? No. Fuck then drink. Fuck before drink."

"We're gonna have drinks at the party anyway. How about study then fuck? Reward system."

"Fuck then study. Honor system."

"Girl Scout honor?"

"Boy Scout."

"Will you wear a jaunty neckerchief?"

"I'll tie you up in knots. How 'bout that?"

"That could work."

"See you at my room in five."

Lip ends the call and puts his phone away. He can still hear the cart rattling way down toward the other end of the building—everything echoes through that atrium.

Quickly, Lip makes his way out of there. He can't stand to hear that sound anymore.

* * *

><p>Lip's feeling marginally better about the world, post-lay. Things seem a little less depressing, more manageable. He rolls over onto his stomach, looking forward to dropping into a peaceful, satiated nap and having that excuse to ignore his responsibilities for a bit longer, but Amanda shimmies into her clothes and whips Lip across the back with his.<p>

"Ow," he complains, "Fuck."

"Dress and work. Now. You promised."

He grumbles and makes one last ditch effort to sink into his pillow, hoping she'll give up. But she whips him again with his jeans. It hurts.

"Fuck," he says again.

"God, I don't have time for this shit," she says, already taking her laptop out, returning her glasses to her nose, "Come on."

"Fine. Fine."

Lip dresses as slowly and half-assedly as humanly possible, not even bothering with his socks and his shirt. He sits back on his bed, takes out his Macbook and goes to the school library databases. Then he just stares at the search box for a bit, uncertain where to even begin. He clicks 'Advanced Search' and then stares at those empty boxes as well.

He sets the laptop aside and takes out his whiskey from under the bed to refill his flask. Amanda gives him a look.

"What?" he demands.

She shakes her head and returns to her work. Lip thinks she's not going to say anything but then she does.

"Getting a little dependent on that to work, aren't you?"

And that really pisses him off.

"You don't know shit, all right? Your perfect home and your perfect, terrible parents who care about you too much? You don't know shit. Don't talk about things you don't understand."

"Okay," she says lightly.

"No," he says, part of him eager at the prospect of having a fight so he can avoid doing this work and part of him bruised at what she is implying, "I know what alcoholism looks like, okay? You don't."

"All right. Fine." She shrugs the argument off.

Lip seethes. He spends far too long trying to decide if he should take a drink to show her, even though he no longer really wants it, or if he should just act casual about it, like he wasn't planning on having a drink anyway, was just refilling his flask to refill it.

When Amanda speaks again, Lip is still bracing himself for a fight, but what she says throws him off.

"What are you writing about for Steigler's class?"

He hesitates then responds, "Globalization."

"What aspect?"

"No clue."

"Well, talk through it. Tell me what your thoughts are on it, then we'll figure out what part of it you should be writing on."

Lip looks at her suspiciously, but her smile is all innocent encouragement.

"Come on," she says, "What is your opinion on globalization, Philip Gallagher? I know you have one."

Lip sighs, allowing the tempting fantasy of a distracting argument go. He puts his head back and starts talking about fucking globalization. Somehow it works too. He does have thoughts about it, an angle. Pretty soon they've worked out how he should be framing his paper and narrowed down his research terms. Goddamn Amanda. She's annoying as hell, but Lip reluctantly admits to himself that she knows how to play the academic game inside and out.

Somehow an hour or two passes and Lip has fallen deep into his research and collecting PDF articles like Mario coins. He's not reading through any of them yet, but saving them to his desktop in one big satisfying pile of potential accomplishment. He jumps when there's a knock at the door.

It's Ian. He's in street clothes now and looking sheepish. "Can I come in?" he asks.

Lip stands aside and closes the door behind him. Ian stands in the middle of the room awkwardly.

"Why is your hair wet?" Lip asks.

"Just came from the rec center."

"Ah."

Amanda hasn't even looked up from her laptop once but she does greet him, "Hey, Ian."

He seems surprised she knows his name. "Hey," he says right back.

Ian turns toward Lip and asks with kind of a fake smile, "Do you think I could borrow some clothes? I'm having dinner with the president day after tomorrow."

"Obama's that hard up for companionship, huh?"

"The president of the university."

"Nice," Lip says, resuming his seat on the bed, "What'd you do to get that date?"

"Everybody who's gotten an award this year has to show up at the president's house for this dinner. I just don't want to look like crap. Mandy said a while back you had a really nice suit."

"Well, sure," Lip replies, "But, Ian, that suit is not gonna fit you."

"I know it's not going to fit me."

"Then why—fuck, no, Ian. No way. I'm not lettin' Mickey—"

"That suit would be really hot on him," Amanda says.

"You think?" Ian asks.

Amanda nods. "Definitely." She turns to Lip and says, "Give him the suit."

"What the fuck ever," Lip mutters. He goes to the closet and takes out the suit in its protective vinyl bag. He hands it to Ian and says, "I want it dry-cleaned before I get it back."

Ian grasps the hanger with one hand and unzips the bag with the other. He holds the suit out and admires it.

"Mickey _would_ look good in that," he says.

"Totally," Amanda agrees.

Lip brings his attention back to his laptop and does his best to ignore them. They're chatting now like they're best buds, Amanda telling Ian about the sorority party tonight, Ian being polite and pretending like he gives a shit. He should come, Amanda tells him, bring Mickey. Lip rolls his eyes and focuses in tighter on the list of available articles, though he's focusing so hard that the words are getting a little blurry and unreadable. He's feeling jealous, for some reason. He's not sure why or which one of them he's even jealous of. Lip concentrates on ignoring, ignoring, ignoring, but then Ian says something that catches Lip's ear: _I'd come but I gotta work tonight._

"Work where?" Lip asks.

Ian looks back at him and Lip can see that Ian's been caught in something he didn't mean to say or didn't mean for Lip to hear.

"Working at school?" Lip asks, daring Ian to lie to his face and giving him all the options to do so, "You pick up an extra shift at night? Just fillin' in for somebody, or what?"

Ian's eyes remain locked on Lip's for a moment then Ian says simply, "At the Fairy Tail. I've been doing a couple nights here and there."

"Oh, that place over in Boystown?" Amanda asks.

Ian nods.

"What? Tending bar?" Lip asks.

Ian hesitates just a second then responds, "Yeah."

Lip allows this information to sink in. It solves the mystery of Ian's extra income though it doesn't seem right that he would have so much from part-time bartending.

"How often you workin' there?" Lip asks, "This a regular thing?"

"Couple nights a week. Anytime Mickey's working late and I've got someone else to watch Yevgeny. I'll drop in, pick up a shift."

Something doesn't feel right, but Lip can't figure out what it is. Maybe it's just the idea of Ian being back in that place that's unsettling.

"They don't care if you just show up without being scheduled?" Lip asks. He doesn't even know why the particularities of scheduling at a gay bar matter to him, but he feels like he has to keep this conversation going. There's something Ian's hiding. Lip's got to work it out.

"They like me," Ian says with a little shrug, "I'm popular."

Lip smirks at this statement and says, "Bartend with your shirt off and you'd probably be even more popular."

Ian gives him a patronizing smile and brings his attention back to the suit. He smooths it down and zips the bag back up.

Then Lip hits on it. "Mickey doesn't know, does he?"

Ian keeps his eyes on the suit bag and admits, "No."

"Why the big secret? What's he give a shit if you're tending bar and picking up some bucks? Think he'd be glad to have the extra money coming in."

"I bet you make really good tips," Amanda says.

"I do," Ian tells her. To Lip he says, "I don't want to worry him. He thinks it's a bad environment for me."

"What?" Lip asks, "The drugs?"

"Yeah. Mostly."

It takes Lip a second to realize what 'mostly' means. He remembers the way those guys were drooling over Ian when he was pouring drinks at The White Swallow, and Lip feels uncomfortable. No fucking shit Mickey doesn't want Ian around all that temptation.

"He doesn't trust you?" Lip asks.

Ian shrugs. "He thinks I'm too stupid to tell when somebody's trying to take advantage of me."

Lip is quiet for a moment, appreciating the odd recognition of something he and Mickey have in common. Then he asks Ian, "You trust yourself?"

Ian meets his eyes, surprised by the question. Then he glances away again and says, "Yeah. Of course. I just do my job and go home."

"You should have the tie that goes with that," Amanda says then, interrupting them both out of this conversation. Then she asks Lip pointedly, "Where's the tie I bought to go with that? And the shirt?"

Lip reluctantly follows her orders, glad to be off the topic of the club for now and to have that weird tension release a little. He takes the shirt from the closet, tie still strung around the neck of the hanger since he hasn't worn either since last winter. He hands these to Ian and asks, "Mickey got socks and underwear, or do I need to provide those too?"

Ian cocks his head and gives him a smile. "How about dress shoes?"

"You serious?"

"He hasn't got any. Hate to buy them just for this."

"I thought Mickey had little girl feet."

"He does. Just like you."

Ian's giving that smug little smirk he always used to wear when teasing Lip. Normally, Lip would say something cutting, remind Ian that he's not half as clever as he thinks, but Lip doesn't say anything, just digs through the bottom of the closet to find those shoes.

After this afternoon, Lip's just glad to see Ian in a fairly good mood. Lip is also relieved to have found out Ian's secret so easily and that it was not anything too terrible after all. So he's serving up drinks to drunk, horny gay guys in Lakeview. Big deal. And Ian's starting classes next term, and that will good for him, and, hey, even the tax bill has been taken care of. Things aren't so bad.

"So," Lip says, handing the shiny shoes over, "They helping you pick out your classes yet, or what?"

"You're taking classes?" Amanda asks.

Ian nods.

"Here?" she asks him.

"Yeah."

"Wait," Lip says, alarmed anew, "They're lettin' you take classes _here_?"

Ian nods again and says, "Or I could take some stuff at the City Colleges. I can go to UIC or Northeastern, I guess, but I'd have to apply. They said that might be a longer process. Kinda just wanna get this done."

"Oh," Lip says, "Good. City Colleges. That sounds better."

"Why?" Ian asks. His amusement from earlier appears gone.

"Well, Ian, come on. The classes here are pretty hard," Lip says.

Amanda gives Lip a look of disappointment.

"The classes aren't really that hard," she tells Ian, "I mean, yeah, some of them are going to be more difficult than others, but if you keep up with the work, they're not so bad."

Ian does not look comforted by this statement, so Amanda adds, "If it's something you're worried about, you could just take as many of the subjects you aren't that great at over at Malcolm X or Daley and then transfer them in. My friend did that with French. Then just take the classes for stuff you're really interested in over here. I mean, there's a limit to transfer credits, but you won't hit that for a while. By then you'll be a pro."

Ian offers her a little smile, but he still looks disheartened. Lip is at a loss as to what is expected of him here. Amanda seems to be judging him, but he's not sure why. What's so wrong about stopping Ian from getting into a situation where he's just going to fail?

"What classes have you signed up for?" Amanda asks Ian.

"Nothing yet," Ian says, "But they gave me a list of stuff. It's all general…credit, I guess? Until I decide on a major."

"Gen Eds," Amanda nods.

"Yeah, that's right. That's what they're called. Sorry."

"Okay," she says, "If you're nervous, you should start with something you're really comfortable with. What are you good at?"

Ian seems uncertain, almost panicked at this question.

"English," Lip says, "He was always really good at English."

Ian glances over to Lip with surprise.

"Well, how about you start with an English class, then?" Amanda says, "Start knocking those credits out of the way while you get your feet wet."

"I guess I could," Ian says.

"Great," Amanda cheers, patting the space beside her on the bed, "Let's see what they're offering in Spring that'll work with your schedule."

Lip shakes his head a little as Ian takes a seat, still holding the suit, shirt and shoes in his lap while Amanda pulls up the Spring course offerings on her laptop. Amanda is in her element, and there's no stopping her when she gets on a roll like this.

Without a word, Lip takes the clothes from Ian and hangs them on the outside of the closet, dropping the shoes on the floor beneath. Then he sprawls out on Kuz's bed and opens up his laptop.

While Amanda explains to Ian how to read the class listings and how to crosscheck them with the catalogue to see what sort of credits things count for, Lip zones out. He starts speed-reading through some of that articles he downloaded, only vaguely aware of Amanda's college orientation patter. He completely loses track of what she's going on about until Amanda interrupts his thoughts some time later.

"Lip!"

"What?" he asks, rolling over to look at her. He almost laughs at seeing what an intimidated little kid Ian looks like sitting beside her. Amanda is half the size of him but she is clearly dominating everything.

"Where's the big pad of paper I bought you?"

"Really? It's time to draw up another schedule?"

"Yes," Amanda says, narrowing her eyes at him fiercely.

Lip sighs and pulls the oversized pad out from under his bed. Amanda sets her laptop on the nightstand and grabs a marker before Lip plops the pad into her lap.

"Okay," she says to Ian, "We're gonna see which of these classes is actually going to work for your schedule."

Lip leans back, amused now, as Amanda draws a grid and lists out the days of the week. It's nice to see somebody else suffering at her hand for once.

"All right," she says, "You work Monday through Friday?"

"Yeah," Ian answers, "Seven to Three."

Amanda adds this information to the schedule.

"And I go for a run in the morning before work. Five to six," Ian adds.

"Well, there's not going to be any classes that early anyway," Amanda replies, writing this down, "But we'll put it on there. Physical activity is important. I wish I could get Lip to give a shit about it."

"I know," Ian laughs, causing Lip a bit of dismay.

"It wouldn't kill him to go to gym once in a while," Amanda says.

"What the fuck?" Lip mutters but they ignore him.

"Oh, yeah," Ian says, reminded, "Then I go to the gym after work. That's usually like, three-fifteen to four forty-five."

"Nice," Amanda compliments him as she writes this down, "I like a man who takes care of himself. No wonder you look so good."

"Thanks," Ian says, and he's grinning. Fucking grinning, the little shit.

Lip sits down gingerly on the edge of Kuz's mattress, watching them with his brow furrowed.

"What nights are you bartending?" Amanda asks.

"Well, it depends, but most of the time it's Thursdays, Saturdays, and Mondays. Sometimes Wednesdays or Fridays, but not usually both."

"How long?"

Ian shrugs, "Seven or eight til two. If it's slow, I'll get out at one."

"When do you sleep?" Amanda murmurs as she marks this down.

"And these nights," Ian says, pointing out several days on the schedule, "I'm watching my stepson, so I can't really do anything else."

_Stepson_. Lip rolls his eyes at this as he makes his way over to the window, lifts it up and lights up a cigarette.

Then Amanda's cooing at the mention of Yvegeny and asking to see a picture, and Ian's got his phone out and Amanda's cooing even more, and Ian's beaming like a proud papa, and Lip could kick them both.

After the baby pictures have been safely tucked away again, Amanda repositions the pad on her lap and asks, "Anything we're missing?"

"Yeah," Ian says, leaning forward, "I coach track at my old high school on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. Usually I skip the gym those days but, you know, I try to make it up and go for a longer run or hit the elliptical harder the next day."

Amanda nods as she adds this down. She seems surprised as Ian continues.

"I go to track meets on Sundays. Those are usually from nine to eleven. And Saturday mornings, I see my therapist. Every other Saturday at eleven, I see my Psychiatrist. And then Saturday afternoons Carl's usually got a game and I go to that."

Amanda writes all this down then sits back, looking over the schedule now covered in writing. "That everything?" she asks.

Ian peers at it and nods. "Yeah. I don't think I missed anything."

"Okay," Amanda sighs, "This doesn't leave us with a lot to work with. Can you take classes during your lunch break?"

"Yeah. They did say I could do that. Even if they run a little long."

"No," Lip says, louder than he means to, startling them both.

"You're takin' your goddamned lunch," he informs Ian, "And you're droppin' something else. Jesus Christ, Ian. You ever consider the possibility that maybe it's not your meds that are makin' you so tired all the time? Maybe it's your fucking life that's makin' you tired."

Ian is quiet, keeping his eyes on the schedule. Then he says in a low voice, "Mind your own business, all right?"

"No," Lip says, "No way. I'm not standin' around while you run yourself into the ground."

"Then stop watching me," Ian says tersely. He looks up at Lip and his eyes are exactly like they were that night in the bedroom when Lip confronted him about Kash. Lip sits back in reflex as Ian stands up, some instinct still saying that Ian's about to pin Lip to a wall again.

Ian doesn't though. He keeps his head bowed as he talks. "Stop creeping around and bothering me," he says, each word measured out carefully, "Stop telling me everything I should be doing and can't be doing and need to be doing. I can't take any more people telling me what to do."

He glances at Amanda with embarrassment and says, "Sorry. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," she says with uncertainty. She looks to Lip for guidance, but he doesn't acknowledge her.

Lip's eyes are trained on Ian, watching him pivot on his feet as if Ian can't remember where the door is. Lip's not certain if he's watching Ian have some kind of a breakdown, or just the frustrated end of a shitty day.

"Ian," Lip says, trying to make his voice as calm and reasonable as possible, "You need to—"

"No," Ian says, his voice still ominously low, "I don't need anything. I don't need you."

He moves for the door and as he does so, Amanda reminds him, "Take the suit."

Ian pauses as if uncertain whether he should, but he does take it. He scoops up the shoes as well, holding them against his chest as he lets himself out.

After Ian has gone, Amanda turns toward Lip, but he can't look at her. He smokes and keeps his eyes down on the desk. He'd like to toss his desk chair through the window right now, but he can't, so he just sits there and pulls on his cigarette like a fish gasping on the shore.

"I think—" Amanda starts to say, but Lip shakes his head.

"Shut up," he says, "Please."

And she does. God bless her, she does.

* * *

><p>Normally, Lip doesn't mind the sorority parties Amanda drags him to, although he's careful never to say such a thing out loud to her. It's fun seeing rich girls dress trampy as hell and get drunk off their asses. It satisfies both his scopophilia and his class resentment. He thrills a little at the potential things he could do, although he never really acts on any of it. Tonight this is not doing anything for him, though. The fact that there's nothing but watery keg Miller Lite isn't helping either.<p>

He finds a corner of the house to hang out in with his Solo cup and broods. He tries not to think about anything, and yet all he does is think about everything. He's growing more depressed and hopeless with every sip, with every fucking Iggy Azalea song that plays, until Amanda hunts him down and sits beside him.

She rests her head on his shoulder, and that feels nice. She smells good.

"I think college is making me dumber," he says.

Amanda neither confirms nor denies this. But she remains beside him, and that's all right.

"I have an idea," she says after awhile.

"What's that?"

"I'm tired of looking at frat boys and basic bitches. And listening to this shitty music."

"Understandable."

"I want to go ogle some hot pieces of ass who aren't going to spend the whole night hitting on me."

"All looking, no obligations?"

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing," Lip smiles, "But where you gonna find this?"

"How about we go visit your brother at work? Bet he'd give us free drinks."

Lip sits up, forcing Amanda to sit up too. He looks at her aghast.

"And you could make up with him," Amanda offers, "It'd be a chance to apologize."

"What do_ I_ have to apologize for?"

"Sometimes you just have to apologize. He seems like he's having a shitty time lately. Why add to it?"

Lip doesn't have any retort to that. It's discomforting, trying to argue with someone who's better at arguing than you. Lip's still not used to it. The worst part is, she always kind of has a point.

He glances out at all these people he can't stand and considers that maybe he'd like to feel like a good person tonight. A good brother, at least. The kind who's willing to apologize even when he hasn't got anything to apologize for. Lip would like to be that person.

"All right," he says, "Why not?"

* * *

><p>They're both already a little buzzed from the party and they horse around on the train, making each other laugh and probably annoying the shit out of everybody else in the car. When they get off at Belmont, Amanda seems to know exactly where she's going. Lip gets the impression this is not her first time going out to gawk at the gay rodeo.<p>

She also gets them past the bouncer without them even having to show their fake IDs. Not like there's some line of people waiting on the sidewalk to get in, though. This club is skeevy, sadder even than that other place where Lip found Ian tending bar last winter.

There's a fair amount of patrons, though, for a weekday night. It takes a while for Lip and Amanda to worm their way through the masses in the general direction of the bar. When they arrive there, however, Amanda doesn't get the attention of any of the bartenders immediately, the way she usually does. Lip is amused at her miffed expression, though he tries to keep his smile to himself.

He watches her shift her shoulders and crane her head over the bar, desperately trying to catch someone's attention. Lip allows her to practically tire herself out then he leans past her and makes eyes with one of the bartenders. It ain't Lip's first time at the gay rodeo either.

"What can I get you?" The bartender asks him.

"Uh, Ian?" Lip asks.

"What's an Ian?"

Lip looks at the guy's blank but beautiful face and holds himself back from a smart remark. Jesus, Ian must be considered a damn genius in this dump.

"No," Lip says, "Ian. Guy who works here."

The bartender continues with the blank expression.

"Ian," Lip repeats, "He's a bartender here. Barboy. Whatever."

"Ian?"

"Yeah."

"Never heard of him. You gonna order a drink or what? Or you interested in something else?"

"Something else…" Lip trails off in confusion. He's suddenly not feeling quite so confident in his ability to fit in here. But he shakes that off and remains focused on what he came for.

"Listen," Lip says, trying to keep his annunciation as clear as possible for this moron, "Can you ask around? Somebody's gotta know Ian."

The bartender sighs irritably and snaps at the other bartender, "Hey! You know an Ian that works here? Bartender?"

The second guy shakes his head, never taking his eyes off the cocktail he's mixing.

"Tall kid," Lip says loudly, "Red hair. He's kinda hard to miss."

"Bartender?" The second guy asks, finally offering Lip a glance.

"Yeah."

"No, man. Sorry."

"Shit," Lip mutters.

"You want anything else?" The second bartender asks, raising an eyebrow at Lip.

"No," Lip replies, careful not to acknowledge the eyebrow. Then he adds, as an afterthought, "Thanks."

He stands back gloomily from the bar and keeps his eyes on the floor as he thinks. Amanda has somehow procured a drink during Lip's conversation with the bartender, and she seems to be enthralled with the dancers on stage.

"Maybe he usually works a different shift," Lip says to her, "Or maybe he's not workin' tonight after all."

"Oh, Ian's working tonight," Amanda says with a strange, knowing tenor to her voice.

It catches Lip's attention, and he finds himself following her gaze to the stage.

There is Ian, on display, nearly naked. He is up on a platform, dancing for a knot of sweaty older men who occasionally slip cash into the waistband of his tiny, glittery green shorts, letting their hands linger near his bulge or his ass or run down his thigh until Ian expertly shifts them off. Lip's eyes dart over the fingers that keep slipping into the elastic at his brother's pelvis, brushing hungrily over the muscles of Ian's lower abdomen or exposing the little trail of red hair as they tuck the cash in deeper than it needs to go, pulling the waistband down with them. Then Lip's eyes make their way up Ian's flexing, writhing torso, past his bony neck—he looks paler and more fragile than ever in this light—up to Ian's face. Ian's eyes are shaded by his lashes, lids lowered to half-mast, but his face is eerily empty of all expression, as if he performing a task like any other. The sensation in Lip's body is like someone has injected his veins with mercury, replacing all his blood and oxygen with liquid metal. He can feel himself dying rapidly, all that quicksilver filling his lungs and settling heavy into the deepest pit of his gut. Death is cold and swift.

"I'm fucking the wrong brother," Amanda remarks.

Lip ignores her, unable to see anything but the nightmare in front of him. Blindly, he pushes forward through the throngs, taking the shortest path through and over strange, disgusting men toward his brother.

Lip stops just before he reaches the final circle of hell, a pack of animals gathered around Ian's platform.

Ian is facing away from Lip, dancing for the other side. Lip watches the array of hyper-defined muscles shift in Ian's back, between them each individual vertebrae works together into a beautiful curve that moves like a sound wave to the beat. How many times in his life has Lip seen that same string of vertebrae; how many times has he punched them, kicked them, tickled them in the pool? How is this the same spine? How is this the same skeleton inside the same skin inside the same little brother?

"You interested in Curtis?"

Lip pays no attention to the voice until it repeats closer, hot against his ear. "You wanna buy some time with Curtis?"

Lip wrenches his eyes from Ian and looks at the man who is talking. He seems like a bouncer, maybe. Something like that. He is big and burly, different than the other young men working here.

"He for sale?" Lip manages to ask, surprised he has any voice at all.

"Private dance is twenty," the man tells him, "Everything beyond that you work out with him."

Lip's mouth is too dry to form words now, but he doesn't think he has the wherewithal to speak anyway. He looks back at the stage. Ian is working his way back to facing this side of the room.

"He's one of our most popular," the man says, continuing to chase the sale.

Ian sees Lip.

Ian's head freezes before the rest of his body follows suit, his eyes going big and Bambi-like.

Lip turns away. He forces his way through the crowd, elbowing and shoving his path to the door. He processes none of it until he is back on the street, the cold air slapping into his face, hurting his eyeballs and the inside of his nose.

He stands on the sidewalk, uncertain what to do or to think or where he is supposed to be moving. In his eyes, he still sees Ian, his deathly white skin, those hands trying so desperately to break off pieces of him for their own…

"Lip?" Amanda calls, huffing to catch up with him, "Hey, you okay? That was a surprise, huh?"

He continues to stand there, eyes on the concrete but not seeing it, only seeing those muscles and bones, the familiar vertebrae…

"They called him Curtis," Lip mumbles stupidly.

"Curtis?" Amanda laughs, "That his stage name? Like Ian Curtis? He's got a darker side than I would've thought."

"Huh?" Lip looks up, finally registering her.

"Ian Curtis. You seriously don't know?"

Lip furrows his brow. He has no idea what she is talking about or why she is talking at all.

"You really have to listen to my 'dumb 80s shit' more often," Amanda says. She is trying hard to keep her tone light, Lip realizes. She is worried about him. He doesn't care.

"I gotta go," Lip says, and he starts walking swiftly for the el.

"Where you going?" Amanda asks, struggling to keep up with him, "Back to school? Let's just get a cab."

"No," Lip shakes his head, bowing it down away from the cold, "I gotta go home."

Amanda stops short in surprise. "To the Yards?" she asks.

Lip doesn't answer, but he moves on without her, covering a block in what feels like seconds. He needs to leave this all behind more than he has ever needed to leave anything before.

* * *

><p>"What're you doin' here?" Fiona asks, pausing with somebody's Coke refill in her hand.<p>

Lip blinks in confusion, not certain quite how he arrived here. It's so bright.

"Lip? You all right? You look like you're havin' a bad trip."

Lip puts a hand through his hair, leaves it standing on end as he watches the pies and cakes rotate in the glass display case. He wonders why there's never any slices cut out of them if they're not fake.

"_Are_ you havin' a bad trip?" Fiona whispers.

"Can…can we talk?" Lip says.

Fiona bites her lip, then grabs a menu and steers him toward a booth.

"I'll be right back to get your drink order," she tells him in a professional tone then abandons him to bring the refill to the other table.

When she returns, Fiona brings a glass of water and sets it in front of Lip. "Drink that," she tells him.

Lip doesn't move.

"You're scarin' me," Fiona says, "What is going on with you?"

Lip takes out his cigarettes with shaking hands, but Fiona stops him. "You can't do that in here," she says.

He looks up at her helplessly.

Fiona sighs. She grabs the elbow of another passing waitress and asks her, "Can you take three for me? Just for a couple minutes?"

The waitress glances at Lip then nods at Fiona. At the busboy station, Fiona pours a cup of coffee. Then she takes a slice of coconut cream pie out of the cooler. She sets both in front of Lip and sits down across from him. She witholds comment as he takes out his flask and doctors the coffee before drinking.

After he's had a steadying sip, she asks him, "Will you tell me what's going on?"

Lip still can't figure out how to get his brain enough around what has happened to get it into words. Fiona coaxes him to eat the pie. He chunks off a forkful, at a loss for what else to do, but then realizes what needs to be said and abandons the pie.

"We fucked up," Lip says.

"What else is new?" Fiona scoffs, looking away then back at him. "But what'd we fuck up this time?"

"Ian."

Fiona's sarcasm fades. "Shit," she says softly, "What's goin' on with him now?"

"Found out what he's up to. How he's makin' all the extra cash."

Fiona splays her hands out on the edge of the table and looks at them as she asks, "He dancin' again?"

"You knew?"

"I knew he was doin' it before. Thought maybe he'd gone back. It's good money."

Lip lets this sink in. "I thought he was bartending," he says, feeling like an idiot, "Last winter."

Fiona looks at him almost wistfully and says, as if she is envious of his naïveté, "You really thought that?"

Lip doesn't have any answer for this. How the fuck was he so stupid? How the fuck did he miss it on top of everything else that was going on with Ian last winter? A kid like Ian in a world like that, living how he was living…how the fuck did Lip not know what that meant? _Bartending_. Lip is such a fucking moron.

And Christ. How is he ever going to break it to Fiona what all of this really means? It's gonna kill her. Lip doesn't want to be the one to tell her how far their brother has truly fallen. He can't do that to her, can't make her feel like he feels right now, like the world is somehow even shittier and more cruel than Lip ever imagined.

"Maybe he's just dancin' now," Fiona offers hopefully, and Lip realizes that there is nothing he has to tell her. Lip's the only one who held onto the possibility that his brother's life might be anything less than awful. Lip's the fool. Not anyone else.

Lip gulps his coffee miserably and says, "He's not just dancin'."

Fiona turns away from him hastily to wipe her traitor tears with her palm. When she faces back, her eyes have gone all Bambi-like just like Ian's.

"Why would he do that again?" she asks, her voice creaky, "He's better now."

Lip shakes his head and drinks his coffee. "He's not better," he says, "He's broken."

"Don't say that," Fiona snaps, "He's got good meds and good doctors. He's doin' so well, Lip. He's doin' _great_."

"I'm not talkin' about the bipolar shit," Lip sneers, irritated that she could think it was so simple as that when it's so much worse. God, he wants a cigarette. He needs to get out of here.

Fiona looks confused and starts to say something, but she's interrupted by the other waitress passing by and saying bluntly, "Three wants pie," indicating that she's done covering for Fiona's ass.

Fiona groans and tells Lip as she gets up, "I'll be right back."

Lip fidgets with his pie, mushing it around without actually eating anything and he watches Fiona talking with the customers. She's worn-out, Lip can tell, but she's putting on an upbeat, flirty demeanor in an attempt to secure her tip. It makes him think of Mandy that time he saw her at the Waffle House all those months back, and he doesn't like this.

He drags his eyes away from his sister and stares down at his pie while he sips the coffee.

He's thinking now about that time when he was fourteen—Ian must've been thirteen, not in high school yet but tall enough to look it—and Fiona sat the both of them down on Ian's bed. She'd shooed Carl out, which they both knew was not a good sign. Lip can still see the worried glance Ian had given him.

It was not a good time. Monica had shown up long enough to have Liam, dump him on his siblings, and then she'd run off again. The wound was still fresh. And with the excuse of Monica having left again, Frank had disappeared into one of his more colossal benders. There'd been Frank sightings all across the neighborhood, but he hadn't been home for over a week. Things were getting desperate. Fiona was watering down the canned soup to the point where it was almost clear.

"Think ya guys could take turns watchin' Liam at night?" Fiona asked, "I finally got a lead on a job where I can make some real money, but it's nights."

"What?" Lip joked, "Are you turning tricks on the bridge?"

Fiona didn't laugh. Instead she explained that a girl she knew was making good cash "dancin'" at a club and had offered to introduce Fiona to her boss.

"Strippin', you mean?" Lip asked.

Before Fiona had been able to dress this up, however, Ian jumped in firmly.

"No," Ian said, "You're not doing that."

"Yeah," Lip agreed, following this lead with as much macho bossiness as he could muster at fourteen with his stupid squeaky voice, "We'll figure something out."

Fiona tried to reason with them further, explain why this was the best option they had, how it really wouldn't be all that bad, but once the brothers realized they had to protect their sister's honor, keep her from ever having to debase herself like that for them, there was no argument left to be had.

"We'll take care of it," Lip told her as Liam started wailing and they pushed her off to go attend to him.

Ian and Lip stayed up late into the night brainstorming, trying to figure out how the hell they could get enough money to make Fiona feel like stripping was no longer the kind of option she'd even consider. Lip did most of the talking, running through several scenarios, though Ian was unusually adept at pointing out the fault in each plan. It was a frustrating night.

In the morning, they both skipped school, agreeing to split up and return at the end of the day with money somehow. All they needed at that point, Lip told Ian, was enough to be a stopgap, tide them over until Lip thought of a real plan. Ian nodded determinedly, and they parted ways, Ian heading one way down the alley, Lip the other.

Lip found himself going downtown to Millennium Park. It was a gorgeous day, and he ended up running a scam, selling Segway tour tickets to sightseers and directing them on a wild goose chase as to where they could secure the actual Segways. He changed location frequently, kept moving, only had to outrun an angry dude once, and by the end of the day he'd made close to two hundred bucks.

When Lip met up with Ian back at the house around four that day, Lip showed off the bills proudly. To the pile, Ian added twenty-two dollars.

Lip sniffed at the paltry amount and asked, "What the hell did you even steal to get that?"

"I didn't steal anything," Ian said, "I got a job."

"What? Like a job-job? Where you work?"

"And they pay me, yeah."

"That's your idea? How the hell are we gonna live off twenty bucks at a time?"

"At least it's regular," Ian argued, seeming a little offended, "Twenty bucks buys food."

"Yeah, for, like, two days," Lip said, but then he felt a little bad at Ian's offense. It wasn't Ian's fault Lip had left him to figure out things on his own. "Well, at least it's something," Lip told him.

When they put the cash down on the kitchen counter for Fiona, she burst into tears.

The boys went to bed that night congratulating themselves with smug looks and shoulder pats. They'd rescued Fiona. They were holding up their responsibility as brothers. The family, even without Monica and Frank and their sporadic cash, was solid.

Before they drifted to sleep, though, Lip had hissed down at Ian, "Where you workin' anyway?"

"Kash and Grab," Ian replied, sitting up on his elbows.

"By the el?"

"Yeah."

"With the Arab guy?"

"Yeah."

"How'd you get him to hire you?"

"Told him I was sixteen. Didn't ask for proof."

Lip snorted. "Dude's probably got a thing for little boys."

"Fuck off," Ian laughed, and settled himself back into bed.

That laugh.

Lip bolts from the booth. He's out of the restaurant before he even registers Fiona calling after him.

* * *

><p>By the time he rolls into The Alibi Room, Lip's already made a couple of pit stops, seeming unable to sit with his thoughts longer than a drink or two in any one place. Somehow he's keeping it together though, and Kev doesn't seem to notice that Lip is a walking bag of whiskey when he sits down.<p>

"Out on a school night?" Kev teases, taking a glass from the backbar and pouring without asking.

"You waterin' my drinks down?" Lip demands to know, leaning over the bar.

Kev holds up the bottle of liquor and the glass and looks affronted as he says, "You see any water here? I don't see any water."

Lip watches the bottle and the glass overlap then pull apart. Then they overlap and pull apart again. His eyes hurt.

"B-before," Lip slurs, "Were you doin' it before?"

"Doing what?" Kev asks suspiciously. He no longer seems to trust Lip and has yet to offer him the glass.

"Lookin' out for me."

Kev continues to stare at Lip for a moment then he sets the drink under the bar and returns the bottle to the shelf. He leans forward and says quietly, "I'm looking out for you now."

"Fuck you," Lip mumbles. He has a strong urge to lay his head down on the bar, but fights it. Instead he folds his arms tight and bows his head. It seems like this should hold him in one place, but he still feels like he's just stumbled off a tilt-a-whirl.

When Lip realizes that Kev is no longer standing there, he reaches over the bar and, despite mitten hands, somehow manages to secure his drink. He sits back and gulps.

When he closes his eyes, all he sees are big, man hands grabbing out for everything they can steal. He sees birdy shoulders by the bathtub, Ian pale and sick after Lip confronted him with the porn magazines. And broad solider shoulders that Lip could no longer pull or yank toward any direction he wanted. Then bony shoulders like the bird grown up, showing pale and tinted under a rainbow of club lights.

Lip opens his eyes and Kev is back.

"Something going on with you tonight?" Kev asks. Casual. Too casual.

"You could've been our dad, right?" Lip asks.

"What's that now?"

"With the…when the girl left…the Mormon chick…"

Kev peers at him until he figures it out. "Ethel?"

"Ethel. Right. Ethel. With the good dirt."

"What about Ethel?"

"No, it's not about Ethel. Why is nobody ever able to follow me?"

"Too smart for all of us, man."

"Yeah," Lip sighs, looking down at his drink, "I'm real fuckin' smart."

"You okay?" Kev asks.

Lip looks up, brought back to his point. "When Ethel…when you didn't have Ethel anymore, you guys…you tried to adopt us, right? Fiona, like…tried that, right?"

"Yeah," Kev admits with hesitation, "Didn't get very far, though."

"Would you have acted like our dad? If it happened?"

"I don't know," Kev remarks, "Don't see how you and Ian would've stood for that."

Lip shakes his head side to side. He doesn't realize he's taking the glass side to side with him until Kev removes it from his hand.

Lip is startled to find the glass no longer in his grip. He looks up at Kev again.

"Would you have protected him?" Lip asks.

"Who?"

"Nah," Lip answers his own question, "Woulda been too late."

"Have some pretzels," Kev says, taking a bowl from under the bar and laying it in front of Lip, "Soak that up a little."

"Kash," Lip says to himself, "Don't even know how long…I didn't ask, you know? The fuck didn't I ask? And Frank? Fuck…Frank, Kash…fuck…"

"Frank take money from you guys again?"

"Why would I think Frank would ever leave him alone? Like that…story…with the snake. Aesop or some shit? You knew I was a snake. What'd you expect? What'd I expect, Kev? Snake is a snake…" Lip laughs bitterly and asks, "How do you kill a snake?"

Kev considers this and says, "Foster Dad used to cut 'em in two with a garden hoe."

"They're both snakes. All snakes. Whole world full of snakes…What do snakes eat?"

"Uh," Kev says, "Mice. Snakes eat mice."

"That sounds right. Mouse in a snakepit," Lip says and drops an imaginary mouse by its tail onto the bar, "Good luck, Ian."

Kev leans in and asks in a low voice, "Ian okay?"

Lip looks Kev in the eye and says, "Of course not."

Lip doesn't understand why Kev is looking back at him like that. This is not news. Not to anyone who's not Lip, anyway. They're all smarter than this average bear.

"I'm like Algernon," Lip mutters, still thinking of mice, "I'm just gettin' dumber…"

Ian wrote a school essay on that story once. It was a good essay. He'd asked Lip to look it over, and Lip couldn't find anything wrong with it. Lip doesn't remember exactly when that was. Eighth grade, probably. When Ian started working.

"Can I get my drink back?" Lip asks, "I really need a drink, Kev. I'll…I'll go somewhere else if I can't…"

Reluctantly, Kev repositions Lip's glass on the bar top. There's very little left in it, and Lip is surprised and relieved to see Kev take down the bottle and pour in another inch of liquor.

"Take that real slow," Kev instructs as he pushes the glass toward Lip, "Baby sips. It's not going anywhere. You don't go anywhere either, all right?"

Lip waves Kev away and sips on. Then he discovers that he can support his head with one hand and still drink with the other. This is good. His head is so heavy. He closes his eyes and feels warm and sleepy. He might already be asleep; he can't quite tell. Sleep would be so nice, though…

Someone takes the glass out of his hand and Lip feels like he's bench-pressing his eyelids, trying to lift them open.

"What's goin' on with Ian?" Mickey demands to know.

"Kev get you?" Lip says blearily, "Fuckin' snitch."

"What's goin' on with Ian?" Mickey asks again, "Somethin' happen?"

"Oh, nothing," Lip says, reaching for his glass though it takes two attempts to get his hand on it, "He's just fine forever. He's got you. You're gonna fix everything. All the things where I screwed the pooch…"

Lip ignores Mickey's confused glare and sloshes the whiskey around like a tiny whirlpool in the bottom of his glass. "True love fixes everything," he mutters and finishes his drink.

Mickey sighs and shifts to an expression of supreme annoyance. "That's what you're goin' on about? Came here just to bust my balls again about bein' with Ian? You gotta fuckin' let this shit go, man."

Lip hops off the stool, wobbling, and grabs onto Mickey for a second to steady himself.

Mickey jerks away from him, but Lip tightens his grip and pats Mickey on the chest.

"You should be home," Lip whispers as Mickey tries to duck his face back away from Lip's breath, "Bad things happen when you leave him alone. Snakes eat mice. Even the smart ones."

Mickey shoves him off and Lip stumbles backwards toward the door.

"Good luck," Lip says, letting himself out and waving over his shoulder at his befuddled brother-in-law, "I hope you do a better job than I did."

* * *

><p>Lip throws up twice along the way. After the second time, he lays in the snow for a while, marveling that he doesn't feel cold at all. He could really just stay here if he wanted, thaw out in the spring…get a proper burial then.<p>

Somehow, though, he finds himself rolling over and back onto his feet. He trudges with determination because there's somewhere else he prefers to die tonight. He wants to go back in time. Back to before everything went to shit. If he can curl up and die there, then none of it every really happened.

At the Gallagher house, though, the door is locked, and Lip can't seem to remember how his key functions. He scrapes at the doorknob with it and then starts pounding and hollering. He's not even sure what he's hollering about or if it's even human, English speech. Noises seem to be just pouring out of him.

Then something hits him hard across his back.

"Fuck!" Lip cries, collapsing onto his knees. Pain is radiating through his back.

"Oh, my god, Lip!" Debbie squeals, dropping the baseball bat to the porch with a thump, "I thought you were Frank!"

Debbie crouches down beside him, but the porch light isn't on, and Lip can barely make out her face. She pokes the place where the bat connected with him and he whimpers.

"Sorry," Debbie says, either for hitting him in the first place or for now poking him. Then, almost as explanation for her actions, she asks, "What's _wrong_ with you? You sounded like a crazy animal."

Lip doesn't answer and Debbie stands up again. She steps over him and unlocks the door, having apparently crept up from around the back of the house before, which makes sense, some distant part of Lip's brain informs him.

"Come on," Debbie says, as she takes Lip's arms and drags him over the threshold. She pauses to open the vestibule door and then drags Lip into the living room proper. She leaves him there to go retrieve the bat and close the door and then she stands over him.

"You're strong," Lip remarks.

"You're drunk," Debbie replies, "You look horrible."

Lip has no words. He tries to move, but he can't. Everything is hopeless.

There are footfalls in the upstairs hallway and Debbie abandons Lip to run up the stairs and catch Liam before he comes down.

Lip hears Debbie tells Liam in a soothing, vaguely irritated-sounding voice, "Go back to bed. It's just Frank."

Perhaps it really has happened. Perhaps Lip has finally become one with Frank. It's believable. Inevitable, really.

Debbie is gone for what feels like it a long time, but might be only a minute or two. Things seem to disappear into nothingness, including all Lip's thoughts. Then Debbie is back, staring down at him.

"Lip?" She asks, "Did you just pass out?"

"Why'd you tell Liam I was Frank?" Lip asks.

"Because if he knew it was you, he'd want to see you. I don't want him to see you like this."

This sinks in hard. Lip wishes he'd stayed back in the snow bank. Then he rolls over and Debbie bends down to help him up.

"I'm sorry I fucked you guys all up," Lip tells her as she gets under his shoulder and helps him toward the stairs, "I'm sorry I'm not…I'm not good. I should've been better."

"I don't think you fucked anybody up," Debbie tells him plainly, working with him slowly each step at a time.

Lip says nothing in response to this because he doesn't believe her. He's ashamed that she has to lie to him.

"Where's Carl?" he asks instead.

"At Connor's."

"Who's Connor?"

"His best friend? From football?" Debbie says this as if it's supposed to jog Lip's memory. But he's a shit brother who's pretty sure he's never heard of any best friend or any kids from football. All of their lives are a fucking mystery to him. And why wouldn't they be? Who the hell would share anything with Lip?

They make it to the top of the stairs at long last, but instead of getting to a bed, Lip breaks away from Debbie and stumbles to the toilet.

He's mostly dry-heaving, but he tries to get out whatever is left in him. If he could just spew out his heart and his lungs and his idiot brain and the stomach that hasn't felt good in months, maybe he could actually be better.

Things disappear again.

Lip opens his eyes at the scent of vinegar invading his nose. He's on the floor in the bathroom and rolls back, looking up. Debbie is kneeling beside him with an open bottle of white vinegar. Her face looks pale and terrified.

"What happened?" Lip asks, struggling to sit up.

"You passed out," Debbie says, "Should I call V?"

"No, no," he says, "Just…just help me to bed, okay?"

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Appearing not entirely sold on the idea, Debbie helps him anyway getting to his feet and walking. She starts to lead him toward his room, but Lip veers for the boys' room instead.

He sits hard on Ian's old bed and then watches drowsily as Debbie immediately goes to Liam, wakes him up and leads him out of the room, careful to shield his view with her body so he never even notices Lip. She babbles cheerfully about Liam sleeping in her bed tonight, and the sleepy kid easily agrees to the idea. Lip is a monster.

Lip pulls his legs up onto the bed and curls up as small as he can get. There are just so many thoughts in his brain that won't stop repeating, banging up against each other, making him feel woozy and beaten down.

Debbie comes back offering a glass of water, but Lip isn't interested. As she sets the glass on the night table, he asks her instead, "Can you Google something for me?"

"Um, okay," Debbie says. She takes her phone from her pocket with weariness and asks, "What do you want me to look up?"

"Ian…"

"You want me to Google Ian?"

"No. No. Another Ian. Ian Something."

Debbie knits her brows and Lip puts a hand to his head in irritation, trying to remember. Then he hears that bouncer guy say _You wanna buy some time with Curtis?_

"Curtis," Lip blurts out, "Ian Curtis. Look him up."

Debbie gives him a troubled look, but then types it in. She starts reading the search results out loud:

"Top Ten Most Famous Rock and Roll Suicides. Famous Suicides. Famous People Who Hung Themselves…"

Lip can't stop the tears; they are just there, sudden and abundant. He doesn't even know what it means, if it means anything. None of it makes any sense, but he is overcome with grief for Ian. Lip was supposed to protect him. Instead he wandered off into this dark, horrible world alone. God knows what happened to sweet, happy Ian. God knows who Ian is anymore, where that kid went…

"Lip?" Debbie says in a tiny voice as the tears stream down his face and his body heaves.

He can't look at her, and he can't stop blubbering now that it's started, so he flops down and buries his face in Ian's old pillow. He sobs, choking in the scent that should smell of Ian—the Ian Lip used to know—but doesn't. It just smells musty now; the sheets probably haven't been changed in a year. Ian is gone.

At some point, Debbie crawls up behind him and puts her hand on his shoulder, which only makes things worse.

"Lip?" Debbie asks gently, "Is there anything I can do?"

Lip doesn't answer. But as she gently creeps back off the bed and leaves him alone, he feels more depressed than ever. Even Debbie's given up on him.

His sobs eventually break down to some choked sniffles and snot, making the pillow a soaked, disgusting mess from which he doesn't even deserve to move. His brain doesn't slow down, though. It's running a continuous loop of Lip's Greatest Hits of People Disappointed—Ian, Fiona, Karen, Mandy, Debbie, Carl, even Monica—all the times he was cruel or callous, all the times he didn't care or didn't care enough…and still he sees those hands grabbing, Ian packaged in those tiny, garish shorts like a Christmas gift for carnivorous perverts…Ian smiling while tending bar that first night Lip had finally found him after all those months away, smiling far too false, speaking far too happily and empty—Lip let that go. Lip let himself be mad at Ian. He let himself put off the worries that sight set off in him…Ian in bed at the Milkovich house, everyone so surprised that Lip could be so detached about it. He wanted to be cold; he needed to be cold. Lip couldn't have kept everything going if he'd let himself feel what everyone else was feeling. He thought he was being the responsible one, the rock. But when has he ever done anything but fool himself into believing this? How responsible was he when he gave in to Ian's babyish romanticized demands about Kash, chose staying in Ian's affection and good graces over Ian being safe from that pervert? How much of a rock was Lip when he went to grammar school to be feted as a genius and left Ian behind at the mercy of Frank? Just shoved Ian into the snakepit and expected him to be okay, that sweet, trusting kid with his laughter and his freckles and his fucking Bambi eyes…

There is the Greatest Hits of things Lip knows he fucked up, but there is also the endless picture show of his imagination, covering all possible scenarios of awful things Lip probably has allowed to happen. This keeps the tears coming afresh, turns his stomach dangerously.

But then someone strong has got Lip by the shoulders and is forcing him to sit up and turn away from the wall.

Ian puts his face right up to Lip's and says, "What the fuck is wrong with you? You're scaring the shit out of Debbie."

Lip just stares at him. It's as if all this thinking about Ian has caused him to materialize from nowhere, looking disgusted and angry with him. Lip's not quite sure if Ian is even real.

"Jesus," Ian murmurs and wraps an arm around Lip's shoulders. Ian lifts him easily from the bed and hauls him to the bathroom. He dumps Lip in the tub before Lip has even gathered his wits together enough to move and turns on the shower.

"Oh, shit!" Lip cries under the cold downpour, scrambling to find his feet, failing entirely and slipping back onto his ass, "Fuck! Shit! Fuck!"

Ian lets the water run another moment or two before he switches it off.

Lip is shivering in the tub, his clothes clinging and saturated with cold. His brain does feel a little bit clearer, reamed out with the alarm of temperature shock. He looks up to see Debbie peeking in the doorway just as Ian tells her, "He's just being a drunk idiot. Go to bed."

Debbie is hesitant and Lip watches Ian soften. He bends down to give her a half-hug and pushes some stray strands of hair off of her face.

"It's fine," Ian says, "I got it. Go get some sleep."

"Sorry I called you so late," Debbie says to him.

"Nah, it's all right," Ian assures her, "Just let me handle it now, okay?"

Debbie nods solemnly. She looks toward Lip before she leaves and says, "Hope you feel better."

Lip puts his head back against the tile and closes his eyes. He has never felt worse in all his life. If he had the wherewithal to put the plug in the tub and drown himself right now, he would.

After Debbie has gone, Ian commands Lip, "Up."

Lip barely opens his eyes, exhausted by his own shame, but Ian is not fooling around. Lip manages to get himself to his feet and allows Ian to wrap him in a towel as he steps out of the tub, like Lip is Liam fresh from his evening bath.

Ian leads Lip back to the bedroom and sits him down on Ian's old bed. Then Ian gets down on his knees and rummages under the bed for a bit until he emerges with a plastic baggie, all rolled up. Ian takes a lighter from the nightstand and sits beside Lip.

Lip reaches for the joint as Ian lights it, but Ian shakes his head and pulls away slightly.

"You've had enough shit tonight," Ian says. He nods toward a cup of coffee that has appeared on the nightstand while they were away (probably brought up by Debbie) and adds, "You can have that."

Reluctantly, Lip sips the coffee. He still feels horrendous, but he's a little more lucid now. The mug is nice and hot too. He holds it between his hands and it subdues his shivering.

"You got a shoebox under there I never knew about, or what?" Lip asks, struggling to turn his mush of brain into normal-sounding conversation.

"Hole in the box spring," Ian replies. He reaches and pulls a blanket from the end of the bed, then puts it over Lip's shoulders with a tenderness that embarrasses Lip and explains, "Only way I could ever keep my good stuff away from you and Carl."

Lip forces himself to smile, still trying to appear normal, "Where'd you even get good stuff?"

"Mickey."

"Ah." Lip can think of nothing more to say than that. He truly has become Algernon now; he feels so confused and tired and stupid. And here Ian is, acting so effortlessly calm and smart. It's fucked up. It's not supposed to work like this.

"You gotta cut this shit out," Ian says.

Lip doesn't answer because he's not even sure what shit it is that Ian's referring to. There are so many options to choose from.

"You're drunk or half-way there every time I see you these days," Ian clarifies, "You're too fucking smart to be that dumb. You got too much to lose."

Ian sits back deeper on the bed, leaning back against the wall and adds, "And anyway, we can't have two of us being nutcases. That's too much for Fiona. Too much for the kids."

Lip struggles to figure out how this ended up being about him. Ian's supposed to be the one with the problem. Desperately, Lip claws his way back toward that and some sense of control. He asks, in the best judgmental tone he can manage, "You just come from the club?"

Ian takes another hit. After he exhales, he says, "I was at home. Getting ready for bed."

Lip realizes that it's actually that late. Ian has already finished his shift at the club and gone home. Where did the time go tonight? It frightens Lip that he can't account for it. To make himself feel momentarily better, he turns that uneasiness back at Ian. It's time to get into it; focus on the real problem.

"What the hell are you doin'?" Lip asks. He doesn't need to be any more specific than this. He can see Ian's posture stiffen. Ian's uncomfortable, even if he's trying not to let on. Lip can still read Ian's body language like the index to a map.

Ian is quiet for a long while, long enough that Lip starts to think Ian's giving him the silent treatment and simply not going to discuss it. Eventually, though, Ian lowers his eyes and examines the joint as he says, "It's good money."

Lip stares at the joint now too, trying to wrap his worn-out mind around this. How the hell…He struggles to put speech together, act as if this is any kind of recognizable logic. "Nothing's that good, Ian."

Ian continues to feign fascination with the joint, but when he speaks, his voice is steady and direct, "Tell that to Fiona when I can keep the heat on here. Keep them all fed and get Debbie and Carl and Liam what they all need. Fiona's barely bringing in anything."

"That's not your responsibility."

Ian huffs a humorless laugh. "Who else is gonna do it?"

"I will," Lip says, rubbing his hands over his eyes, glad to get back to some kind of argument, "I'll figure somethin' out. But you're not goin' back there again."

"Yes, I am," Ian replies, "I'm not passing up this chance."

"What chance?" Lip asks, horrified. Once again he feels like Ian is having an entirely different conversation that the one Lip is having, like all Ian's reference points for reality are different. It's disorienting.

Ian is quiet again. He seems to be organizing his thoughts into words and Lip refrains from interrupting him. He can't force actual reality back on his brother; Lip's not even sure what actual reality is at this point.

"I don't have anything else to give," Ian says after a bit, "I'm dumb and I'm crazy. I've got no education. Nothing I'm good at. All I'm ever gonna be able to get are shit jobs like I've already got. And that's if I'm lucky. Nobody else is offering me any way to make money like this. And I gotta…I gotta do it while I can. These drugs are turning me into a fat slug, making me look like shit. They started me on this new anti-whatever last weekend? Now my hair's coming out in the shower. Nobody's gonna wanna pay me for anything pretty soon."

Lip struggles to figure out which of the dozen points of faulty logic here he should start with, but it's all making his heart hurt as much as his brain. He settles on just saying, "There are better ways to make money."

"Not this kind of money." Ian finally looks at him and Lip gets the sense that Ian's confessing his sins as he says, "Do you have any idea how much I was making last winter? People will pay you a lot to do weird shit."

Lip's stomach tightens at the thought of what people might be paying Ian to do. The possibilities are too unbearable right now to contemplate further, so Lip once again grapples for any friendly facts he can hold onto. "What happened to all that money? You got it stashed somewhere?"

"Snorted it all, mostly," Ian says, bowing his head and looking ashamed for this first time tonight, "Bought some clothes and shit. Stuff for other people. I don't even know. Real Monica of me."

Lip shakes his head at this. God, he needs his brain right now. "There's better ways to make money," he repeats, "Shit that isn't…shit that…what about school?"

Ian sniffs at this and raises an eyebrow. "Yeah, that's gonna work great. If I don't flake out and fail, I should be promoted to Custodial Supervisor in what? Ten years? That's gonna help everyone out a lot."

"It's a long term goal," Lip hears himself explaining stupidly, "Bigger picture."

"Long term goals don't help Fiona. She needs help now."

"Then let _her_ do the dancing, all right?" Lip spits out in frustration, "Problem solved."

Ian gives Lip a disgusted look at this.

"What?" Lip asks, "She's the one with the responsibility. Let her pay her own bills. She's a big girl. If lapdances and..whatever…are the answers to all her money woes, let her do it."

"It's different."

"Bullshit. How the hell is it any different?"

"It's just different. Anyway, I can handle it. It's not a big deal."

Lip seethes while Ian inhales again and closes his eyes, looking far too peaceful for this conversation. Lip gulps his coffee and runs through his options for argument. His brain is coming back now; he can feel the synapses starting to fire right again.

"What about Mickey?" Lip bursts out, glad to have finally, _finally_, landed on something that's gonna hit Ian where he cares, "You're supposed to be fuckin' married, right? How the hell does this fit into that?"

But Ian doesn't even bother opening his eyes. "Doesn't count. I don't do anything that counts."

"Oh, you got rules about this, huh? Strict moral guidelines on the acceptability of suckin' strangers' cocks?"

"You don't understand," Ian replies simply.

"I _don't_ understand; you're right. Ian, what the fuck? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Ian shrugs. "What isn't?"

"No. No. Don't default to that bullshit. This is…I mean…" Lip battles to articulate all of his thoughts from tonight as he looks at Ian and asks, "Would it be different if I'd stopped it?"

"Stopped what?"

"The shit with Kash. And Jimmy's dad. I should've…I didn't…I just let you—"

Ian rolls his eyes. "I'm not some fucked-up little child abuse victim. It's just a job, all right? No big deeper meaning. Don't try to act like some shitty shrink. It's a job. I do my work. I come home. Fiona and the kids get to stay in the house. Everybody's all right. Nobody gets hurt."

Lip studies Ian's profile, certain that there is something there, something that he's caught onto that Ian can't hide under his serious little soldier act. Then Lip gets it.

"This isn't about Fiona, is it?" Lip says, "You like doin' this."

Ian opens his eyes and _there_. Lip's hit it.

Ian starts fidgeting almost immediately, his armor crumbling off at a speed that would be comical if it wasn't so sad. He smiles a little as he tries to speak, starting and stopping a few times before he manages to twist it all into a shape he finds presentable.

"You—you told me earlier it was a trade-off, right? The medicine and shit and everything else? Everybody keeps telling me that. 'It's a trade-off. It's a trade-off.' But, you know, when it's a 'trade,' you're supposed to get something back."

He looks to Lip beseechingly, begging him to understand as he says, "I traded everything. My future. My body. Everything I was good at. My mind's long gone…there isn't anything I haven't lost. And what do I get?"

"You get to be functional. That's not nothing."

"Yeah," Ian laughs, "_Functional_. Fuck…"

Lip sits patiently with his coffee while Ian works out what the point he's trying to make is.

"When I'm there," Ian says finally, "I'm perfect. All those people think I'm perfect. Go ahead and kill me for liking that."

Lip is quiet, trying to think of something remotely adequate to say to this, but his attention is drawn to another matter. He looks at Ian and whispers, "I'm gonna be sick."

Ian blinks and realizes what Lip has just said.

"Okay," Ian says. He hauls Lip up and hustles him back to the bathroom.

Lip crouches in front of the toilet with his face resting on the dried-piss-spotted rim and waits. His heart throbs in his ears, breath holds in his chest, and he waits, waits, and then it comes. He vomits all the coffee right back into the bowl and wishes, for probably the eightieth time today, that he was dead.

Ian, meanwhile, has taken a seat on the edge of the tub and is calmly smoking. It's a strange presence for Lip's humiliation. But it seems fitting.

When Lip has finished, he roles onto his side and lies on the floor panting. He is eye-level with the heating vent. As he stares at the thick webs and balls of dust that have accumulated in the grating, his mind wanders absurdly to a visual map of the heating system in the house. Lip knows where all the ducts run in this house, which are weaker or stronger than the others, where they all meet up with the furnace in the middle part of the basement. His brain traverses over and over this map, but it keeps ending up in the basement. And Lip remembers that time he came home from Kindergarten with Fiona and they couldn't find Ian.

It wasn't that unusual for Ian to be missing. Several times they'd come home to find that Frank had taken Ian out with him—Frank did like having someone to talk at—but then returned home without his tag-along. They'd picked up Ian at a couple of bars, a convenience store, strangers' houses, and once the homeless shantytown under the el tracks. But this time had been cause for panic because they couldn't find him anywhere. Until they did find him in the basement. He'd been hiding and fallen asleep. They never got it out of him what he was hiding from.

Lip hasn't thought about this in almost fifteen years. And now suddenly he can't push it back to wherever it surfaced from.

"Did shit…happen?" Lip whispers from the floor, "That year you were home with Frank? Before Monica came back?"

"No," Ian says.

"You stopped talkin'," Lip mumbles, working it out to himself, "That was when you started gettin' quiet. I wanted to think it was 'cause you were just gettin' older. But you were such a little kid. You used to be so happy…"

"Nothing happened."

"How do I believe you?"

"Just do."

Lip closes his eyes, but now Ian's hauling him up and dragging him back to the bed.

"You gotta get some sleep," Ian tells him as he removes Lip's shoes and gets him under the covers, "You got classes tomorrow."

"No," Lip protests, even as drowsiness creeps up his body and settles into his head, "I gotta figure all this shit out."

"You don't have to figure anything out," Ian says, "I got everything covered."

Ian sits on the edge of the bed and says, "I want Fiona to have a life. I want you to have a life. So, don't fuck things up at school. Stop worrying about what's going on down here. I got everything under control. You don't worry about it anymore." He pokes Lip in the chest and says, "You just worry about you."

Ian turns off the lamp and starts to head out. Before he reaches the door, however, Lip calls after him in one last attempt to fix _something_ tonight.

"I'm sorry I was such a shitty brother," Lip says, "I should've taken better care of you. I should've paid more attention."

Ian shakes his head and switches off the overhead light. He says one final thing, and it lingers in the darkness after he has left:

"You did great."


End file.
